


Let Love In

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Romantic Fluff, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're still learning that love is more of a journey and less of a destination. </p><p>[A series of interconnected vignettes].</p><p>For <a href="http://www.vesper-rose.tumblr.com">vesper-rose</a> for the <a href="http://www.00Qnewyearparty.tumblr.com">00QSummer Exchange</a></p><p>A <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3474446/chapters/7627583">Chinese translation</a> now available, provided by the gracious <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/danacathsu/profile">danacathsu.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 22

**Author's Note:**

> For [vesper-rose](http://www.vesper-rose.tumblr.com) who prompted the following: _At least a partially established relationship, but there's definitely room for them to get to know each other better. What I have in mind is something a bit more centered on thoughts/emotions and backstories, not so much an incredibly fascinating plot. It'd be a bit of an exploration of where they are, and how they got there, how things in the past are affecting them now. If you want to give one or both of them a dark past, I'm all for it. But it could go the other way as well; if you want one or both of them to have rather boring pasts that could work too. If you want to work in James' canon past (by that I mean the events of Casino Royale and such) then that's fine as I'm familiar with that and it'd be nice to see a bit of that._
> 
> Because my original story did not meet the OP's request, I had to start from scratch about a week ago. I really didn't do the prompt justice, but I hope that this suffices.

_You wait_  
_Wanting this world to let you in_  
_And you stand there_  
_A frozen light in dark and empty streets_

_And you smile_  
_Hiding behind a God-given face_  
_And I know you're so much more_  
_Everything they ignore is all I need to see_

_And you're the only one I ever believed in_  
_The answer that could never be found_  
_The moment you decided to let love in_

_And now I'm banging on the door of an angel_  
_The end of fear is where we begin_  
_The moment we decided to let love in_

- _Let Love In_ by the Goo Goo Dolls

* * *

 

It’s been twenty-two days since Q broke down and finally slept with James Bond. They had an irresistible chemistry that Q could not deny, even after months of halfheartedly trying because _no way_ was he going to go down that road with such a cocksure, pompous smartarse who couldn’t bring home equipment to save his life. But then Bond had come through the door after a suicide mission, smiled at Q, and _that_ , as they say, _was that_.

The first time, Q blamed it on stress and the fact that he hadn’t slept in days; Bond said something about adrenalin. They chalked it up to a much needed night of tension relief and, ever adults, both tried to go their separate ways. But something kept pulling them back to each other over and over again, until one night turned into two and then three until it was every night.

And it’s been every night for the past ten days.

Still, it’s the first time in twenty-two days that they’re not either at work or in the carpark, and Q is looking forward to not having to rush, to having a bed beneath him instead of the edge of a table or the awkward tilt of the backseat of Bond’s car. They’re not teenagers, but Bond’s been treating him that way, until Q finally said that enough was enough and they were going to do it properly or not at all.

So it’s the first time that Bond’s been to his flat, but he doesn’t seem particularly concerned with the lack of decor or the fluffy white cat perched on Q’s coffee table, as he is more focussed on getting Q into bed. And Q’s not one to argue with that because the rumours about James Bond are _absolutely_ true.

It’s after, when they are lying there catching their breath, that Q notices.

“You have freckles,” he says, and Bond opens one eye to regard him.

The bedside lamp is on and the hard blue of his iris is softened in the golden light.

“What?” he asks.

“Freckles,” Q replies, and brushes his fingers over the smattering of spots on Bond’s left shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous,” Bond says, grunting as Q climbs over him to his other side.

“You have enough to play connect the dots,” Q observes, tracing lines between them with his finger, then his lips. Q recognises the intimacy a little too late, and regrets overstepping their boundaries. They aren’t in a relationship, even though twenty-two days seems like it. But it’s just shagging. Nothing more than that.

Q unobtrusively withdraws from the bed and goes into the bathroom, where he stands nude and shivering as he fiddles with the taps for a few minutes, giving Bond ample time to dress and escape.

But when Q returns, Bond is still in his bed like he owns it, and Q is honestly not sure what to do about it.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Bond asks gruffly, and Q makes his decision.

He turns off the light on the bedside and then slides back beneath the duvet where it’s warm. Q keeps a sliver of space between them, not touching now that the post-orgasmic euphoria has left him. He considers turning over onto his other side so that they are facing away from one another, but Q is staring at the slope of Bond’s shoulder in the dark, silhouetted against the streetlight illumination from behind his too-thin curtains and he cannot look away.

“Q,” Bond says.

“Hmm?” Q answers, hoping that if he sounds like he is trying to sleep, Bond won’t say whatever he is about to say.

But Bond reaches back with his arm and takes hold of Q’s elbow, pulling him closer so that Q is against him like he had been earlier. They’ve never done this before. After, they are always scrambling for clothes and looking round to make sure no one overheard or saw them. So this is new and somewhat awkward, because Q doesn’t know what to do with his hands or feet. That is, until Bond hooks his ankle around Q’s to keep him from fidgeting.

“Are you always this nervous?” Bond asks.

“I’m not nervous,” Q counters, as Bond takes his hand and moves it to rest over his waist.

“Nervous,” Bond says again, with something that sound suspiciously like fondness.

“Not nervous,” Q responds, and bites at Bond’s nape lightly.

“Fine, not nervous,” Bond says, as he brings Q’s hand to his mouth and kisses his fingers.

It’s tender and sweet, and Q likes it more than he wants to admit. He presses his forehead against Bond’s back and breathes out a sigh.

“You know,” Bond begins, “you can keep doing that thing you were doing.”

When Q doesn’t say anything, Bond rolls his shoulder under Q’s cheek as if to prompt him.

“I don’t mind,” he adds. “Really.”

Q pulls back slightly, just enough that he can see the expanse of Bond’s back before him. When he squints, he can just barely make out the patches of freckles that adorn Bond’s shoulders. They’re dark on his skin, like the gathering of reverse stars, small galaxies imprinted upon his flesh that only Q is privy to view. He can’t quite see them in all their beauty without his glasses, but he kisses them all the same, until Bond's breaths even out with sleep.

It's the first time that they've been like this and it somehow feels even more intimate than sex. Q's arm is still round Bond's waist, their legs  intertwined, and Q knows that this has more to do with trust than anything else. He knows that Bond doesn't let his guard down like this, not for anyone. Q wants to believe that it means something, but he knows that it's a selfish thought. This is a temporary distraction for Bond, something to pass the time between missions, between affairs. 

Q presses his cheek against Bond's back and counts the beats of his heart until his eyelids become heavy. Even knowing that it's fleeting, Q wonders if there will be another night after this night, and another after that. More than anything, he is surprised to find that he wants that, wants to nurture this fragile, impossible thing between them. He thinks they can be good together if they try, even if it's just for a little while. 

He kisses Bond's shoulder blade.

They’re not in a relationship, not really, but sometimes, it’s nice to pretend.


	2. Day 35

Bond should know better by now. He’s old enough to know the signs when a no-strings-attached affair becomes something more, and he’s old enough to know better when it’s _him_ that is responsible for it. At the same time, he’s too old to pretend like he doesn’t care, that he doesn’t want this. 

That’s a young man’s game, after all. 

So Bond might be breaking his own rules, but for once he doesn’t mind. It’s been just over a month since this thing started, but already Bond feels more at home in Q’s flat than he does in his own. He finds himself looking forward to sleeping in the same bed every night, beside the same person, knowing that he’ll wake up in the same place, with the same arms round him. It’s something that Bond never thought would be in the cards for him. But now he thinks things might be different.

Q might be one of the few people in the world who truly understands him, someone he doesn’t have to lie to, someone he can _trust_ in a profession where trust is hard earned and scarce given. 

Bond isn’t about to get his hopes up too quickly, but he’s not about to shut this down before it starts, either. 

So he stays when he knows that Q thinks he won’t and there is something about Q’s smile that tells him _yes_ , this is where he’s meant to be.

Most of the time, anyway.

“There’s nothing in your fridge,” Bond says, as Q comes into the kitchen, towel drying his hair. 

“Haven’t been in much. And every time I am here, you’re here, and we order out,” Q replies, carefree, dropping the towel round his shoulders as he moves round Bond to reach for the kettle. 

“But there’s nothing in here. It’s actually empty,” Bond continues, staring into the bare chest. “Even I have condiments.” 

“Oooh, condiments. Maybe we should move the sleepovers to yours then?” Q suggests, as he fills the kettle from the tap. 

“There’s a service you can call,” Bond says. His stomach growls as he closes the door and then begins rooting through cabinets, only to find them in a similarly sad state. 

“Weird,” is Q’s response, as he waves Bond out of the way so he can set the kettle on the hob. 

“You’re weird,” Bond says. 

“Yes, I know,” Q replies, and kisses him. “Shower’s free if you need.” Q pauses and sniffs him. “Which you definitely do.” 

Bond pinches his arse in retaliation, delighting in the squeak he gets in return. He showers quickly with a borrowed flannel and when he emerges, there is a fresh towel sitting on the edge of the sink waiting for him. It smells like Q’s detergent, like his sheets, like the sleeves of his cardigan, and Bond breathes it in deeply. 

He dries off, then wraps the towel round his waist and pads out into the living room. Q is already on the couch with his first cup of tea, the cat--Einstein--in his lap. He looks up when Bond enters. 

“Here I was going to suggest you leaving some clothes here, but I much prefer you like this,” Q says. It is then that Bond realises he is not wearing his glasses.

“Can you even see me from that from that far away?” Bond asks.

“Of course I can,” Q replies. “I’m farsighted.”

“How farsighted?” Bond asks, as he comes closer.

“Farsighted enough,” Q answers. It’s only when he starts to squint that Bond knows he is having difficulties. 

“You can put tea on without wearing your glasses.”

“I can put tea on in my sleep.”

Bond sits down on the sofa next to Q. 

“But you can’t see me now,” he asks, taking Q’s mug from his hands to set on the coffee table. 

“Nope, you are absolutely, 100% invisible,” Q replies. 

“You little shit.”

Bond kisses the smirk from Q’s lips. He tastes like the sugar he puts in his tea, and Bond chases that with his tongue. Q moves his arms round Bond’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Einstein lets out an annoyed sound as he jumps from Q’s lap to the floor. 

“You know, I don’t have to be in until noon,” Q tells Bond, when they part. 

“Good, so we have plenty of time,” Bond says, and sits back. “Let’s go grocery shopping.”

Q groans and falls back against the arm of the sofa.

“Ugh _why_? Let’s just order in,” he says, moving his pyjama-clad leg over Bond’s bare knee. “We won’t have to get dressed.” 

“Come on,” Bond says, tugging Q up and off the couch. 

Q grumbles the entire way to the bedroom, then as he gets dressed in a shirt and jumper and proper trousers. Bond hangs up his towel in the bathroom, then dresses in yesterday’s clothes, only slightly wrinkled from where they had been carefully folded over the footboard. 

“You really should leave some clothes here,” Q says. He’s sitting on the side of the bed pulling on socks and watching Bond try to smooth a crease in the front of his shirt. He has his glasses on now so he is looking at Bond without squinting. But then he goes a bit red and turns back to his socks. “If you want to.” 

Bond sits down on the edge of the bed next to him, admiring the heavy blush on the back of Q’s neck. 

“I’d like that,” Bond says, and means it. 

Q peeks up at him through his fringe.

“Yeah?” he asks, as he straightens up. 

Bond gently takes Q’s glasses and sets them into the messy nest of dark curls, then kisses him. 

“Yeah,” Bond says. 

“Okay,” Q replies, nodding in agreement. 

It’s a big step, and they both know it, but it’s definitely worth it for the way Q smiles when Bond kisses him again. Bond thinks he’ll never get tired of that smile.

“But first, grocery shopping.”

Q laughs helplessly. 

“Fine, fine. Let me get my coat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you catch any glaring errors~ xx


	3. Day 60

They’ve not been together two months before Bond is unofficially moved in with Q. He doesn’t have much--more clothes than anything, and finer than all the things Q owns put together--but Q makes sure that he has his own drawer and half the wardrobe so he feels welcome. It’s much better than Bond always leaving in wrinkled shirts and trousers. Surely the neighbours have been wondering. 

Nothing between them changes, just becomes more convenient, and Q is actually quite happy. 

But if there is one hitch to the whole arrangement, it’s that Bond is an early riser. It must be the military in him, Q thinks, because he’s never seen anyone else automatically wake at six in the morning and be okay with it. 

For Q, the schedule is somewhat offensive. He usually clocks more than the average eight hour day, often going over twelve and sometimes pushing at fifteen. If a Double-Oh needs him, he might be there for up to forty-eight hours depending on the situation, though those are few and far between, unless one of them is doing it just to piss him off.

In any case, Q finds it a bit annoying to be woken up after what is considered a nap by human standards. The first few times, Q forgives it, writing it off as an eccentricity, but he quickly learns that this is a daily routine that will continue unless he says something.

“Where’re you going?” Q grumbles into the pillow. He can’t even open his eyes yet. They’re still glued shut with sleep. “‘s early.”

“Out for a run,” Bond says and kisses his messy hair affectionately. “I’ll pick up breakfast on the way back.” 

Q makes a shooing motion at him, and Bond leaves without another word. After the door closes, Q settles down to go back to sleep. Einstein comes up onto the bed with him and snuggles against his side, forming a little ball of warmth against his hip. 

He swears he’s just nodded off when the door opens. Einstein immediately jumps off the bed to investigate. There’s the sound of shoes on the hardwood, the crinkle of bags on the counter, the hushed swear and muffled stumble that Q attributes to Bond tripping over the cat. By the time Bond makes it back into the bedroom, Q is awake and hating every second of it. 

“Did I wake you?” Bond asks, looking apologetic when he sees Q sitting up in bed. 

“Yes,” Q says unkindly. He’s only managed to get open one eye, and he glares at Bond through a half squint. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past seven,” Bond answers. 

“I’m going to murder you,” Q says. 

Bond leans in and kisses him, smelling like sweat. Q pushes him away irritably and flops back down into bed. 

“You’re angry,” Bond says. 

“No,” Q replies scathingly, pulling the duvet up over his head. Quarter past seven and he’s got to be in the office at ten. He could have had a nice interrupted sleep if it hadn’t been for Bond and his psychotic obsession with waking up at the crack of dawn every day. To _exercise_ of all things.

“Yes you are. You’re sulking,” Bond says.

“Not sulking. Trying to sleep. Like _normal_ people do at this hour,” Q grumps, curling into a ball. Already his head is beginning to pound. He’ll have to take a panadol to get through today at this rate. 

“I really didn’t mean to wake you,” Bond says, and there’s a pressure on the duvet near Q’s upper arm. 

“Go shower. You smell,” is all Q says in reply. 

Bond leaves him and a few minutes later, Q hears the shower turn on. Q hopes that means he might have a chance at catching another fifteen minutes of sleep before he has to tear himself up out of bed. His nice, warm, comfortable bed… 

The shower turns off and then the bathroom door opens. The next thing Q knows, he has a very warm, albeit slightly damp, secret agent pressed against his back. It takes a moment for his sleepy mind to register that Bond is also quite naked, and that sends any coherent thought right out the window. 

“Do I smell better now?” Bond asks, nuzzling the back of his neck. 

“Stop, I want to sleep,” Q grumbles. 

“You are awful first thing, do you know that?” 

“Maybe if first thing wasn’t six in the bloody morning, I’d be a bit more amicable.” 

Bond moves his arm round Q’s waist and noses at his hair just the way Q likes. He feels his irritation ebbing away instantly.

“I said I was sorry and I mean it,” Bond says. “I’m used to getting up early and running a few miles.”

“A few?”

“At least five.” 

“Before breakfast?” 

Bond laughs.

“Yes, before breakfast.”

Q knows he’s not going back to sleep now, so he turns over in Bond’s arm and curls up against him. 

“You’re mad,” Q says, and Bond hugs him tighter when he chuckles. Q likes that, likes the closeness between them that has nothing to do with sex but is still so intimate. He feels adored in that moment and Q thinks that it might not be so bad to be woken up early so long as Bond does this every day. So he proposes: “Can’t you make snuggling in bed your new thing? It’s much more satisfying than running round London like a crazy person.” 

“I’ve got to stay fit.”

“We’ve got a gym at Six.”

“Treadmills are boring.”

“But it’s always raining.” 

“I find it refreshing.” 

Q pushed at his chest. 

“You’re definitely mad,” Q says, and Bond squeezes him again, “but I like when you do that. Any chance that you can not wake me up at first sunup but do this when you get back?”

“I’ll do my best,” Bond says, kissing the top of his head again before withdrawing from bed. “Now get up. I’ve picked up breakfast.” 

“Ugh, can’t you bring it to me?” Q grumbles, sliding into the spot where Bond had just been, soaking up his body heat still lingering on the sheets.

“No way, princess,” Bond says, pulling the duvet off him in one swift motion. 

Q hurls the pillow blindly in his general direction, satisfied when he hears Bond _oomph!_ at the impact. It comes flying back a moment later, hitting Q directly in the face. 

“James Bond _I will end you_.” 

Bond’s laughing in the kitchen like he’s heard it all before. 

“I’d like to see you try.” 

If there’s one thing that can get Q up out of bed, it’s a good challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	4. Day 72

Bond spends nearly three weeks away from London on assignment and when he returns, it’s bitter cold and sleeting. Still, it’s a welcome change from the humid, rainy misery of Uruguay, and Bond is looking forward to a warm shower and even warmer bed awaiting him at home. 

It should feel strange thinking of Q’s flat as home, but it’s much better than the pathetic excuse of a haunting ground that was his old place. Not to mention it’s nice to come home to another person who will be genuinely glad to see him. 

When he arrives, Bond enters quietly and sets his bag down without a sound. It’s not terribly late, but he doesn’t want to wake Q if he’s gone to bed. All the lights are on, which is a good sign, and Einstein peeks his head round the corner to look into the foyer at him. He meows when he recognises Bond and comes to weave between his legs in greeting. This hinders Bond for a moment as he tries to get out of his shoes, and by the time he’s done, Einstein has effectively shed enough white hairs on his trousers to create another cat.

Einstein makes another vocal plea, and Bond knows that he’s got to pick the bloody animal up or it will trip him into the next room. So Bond scoops up the beast and heads toward the living room, ignoring the engine roar of purring in his arms the entire way. 

He finds Q dozing on the couch beneath the sofa blanket in front of a muted telly. His laptop is open, but hibernating on the coffee table. It is surrounded by an assortment of unopened takeaway boxes, letting Bond know that Q had once again taken his work home with him and been too absorbed in it to remember to eat. 

Einstein jumps from Bond’s arms and onto Q’s legs, and Q immediately starts awake. He smiles sleepily when he sees Bond. 

“You’re back,” he says. 

“I am,” Bond replies. 

“Welcome home,” Q says, sitting up so that there is room for Bond on the couch. Q yawns and gestures at the takeaway boxes. “I made dinner.”

“A man of many talents,” Bond observes, as Q stifles another yawn. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Hmmm, that depends on what day it is.”

“Sunday.” 

“Oh, maybe we’ll catch a rerun of Doctor Who,” Q says, and the way he doesn’t answer Bond’s question tells him everything he needs to know. 

He’s just about to tell Q that it’s time to go to bed, but Q shrugs off the blanket and reaches for the remote on the edge of the coffee table and it is then that Bond notices.

“Are you wearing my dressing gown?” he asks.

“It’s cold in here,” Q answers.

Bond slides his hand up the length of Q’s back, following the seam along the thick, navy fabric. When he reaches the collar, Bond threads his fingers into Q’s hair. Q closes his eyes and leans into it, as if a trained killer does not have all the knowledge and power in the world to snap his neck in less than a second. The trust Q gives him is unbelievable and overwhelming, but at the same time, it feels _good_. 

“I missed you,” Q admits, and Bond pulls the other man to his chest at the admission. 

It’s been too long since he’s felt Q like this, and he’s missed it very much. 

“Do you always wear it when I’m not here?” Bond asks, as Q adjusts his weight and the angle, forcing Bond to recline backwards against the arm of the sofa. 

“Yes,” Q says, as he situates himself to lie on top of Bond. 

The join between them is nearly seamless, as if they are one being, and Bond feels as if he can close his eyes and sleep just like this. 

“It smells like you,” Q continues, pressing his lips against the hollow of Bond’s throat. He stops and then nudges Bond’s jaw with his nose. “Is that creepy? Maybe that sounds creepy. You didn’t hear that.”

“It’s not creepy,” Bond tells him honestly. “I like the smell of your detergent.” 

“Really? It’s nothing special…” Q says.

“No, but it reminds me of you,” Bond replies, and turns his cheek to rest in Q’s hair.

The curls are still slightly damp from a shower, and Bond breathes in the scent of his shampoo.

“Your shampoo is nice too.”

“It’s for women,” Q admits with a laugh.

“No,” Bond says, as if the concept is ghastly. 

That has Q giggling, and it’s a welcome sound after three straight weeks of gunfire and harsh Spanish vowels. 

“You should try it,” Q says, as he sits up, “when you shower.”

“I think that’s a hint,” Bond replies.

“It is.”

“Why are you always telling me I smell?”

“Because you usually do.” 

Bond tickles at Q’s side, earning another burst of laughter that nearly sends the smaller man rolling off the sofa. It’s only Bond’s quick reflexes that save him from falling, and Q clings onto him, still trying to catch his breath as Bond resituates him. His cheeks are flushed with happiness, lending him a complexion that he can’t keep under Six’s harsh fluorescent lights and Bond thinks him exceptionally handsome in that moment. 

“What?” Q asks with a windswept smile. 

“I missed you,” Bond says. 

It puts a pretty blush on Q’s face, one that he hides by kissing Bond into closing his eyes. They spend the evening like that, not saying or doing much other than lazily kissing as they snuggle and half-watch the muted telly. It’s relaxing in a way that Bond is not accustomed to, and he finds that he likes that there is no pressure to perform--socially or sexually--and that fills a place in him he never realised had been empty. 

Around eleven, Q begins dozing on his shoulder, and Bond is close to sleep as well, so he rouses the other man with a gentle shake. 

“Bed,” he says, and Q doesn’t argue as he untangles himself from Bond. 

They put the untouched takeaway in the fridge, then go into the bedroom where Bond begins stripping out of his clothes. Q shrugs out of Bond’s dressing gown and hands it to him. 

“You can keep it on if you’re cold,” Bond tells him, because he doesn’t mind Q wearing it. There’s something endearing about the way it drowns him, how the sleeves are too long, and Bond gets a mental image of what Q looks like in the flat when he’s not here, carrying a bit of Bond round with him wherever he goes. 

“I only wear it when you’re gone, but you’re home now,” Q says, putting the garment in Bond’s hand before he slides under the duvet. “Besides, I’ve got you to keep me warm.” He removes his glasses and puts them on the bedside. “Don’t keep me waiting, yeah?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Bond promises, and disappears into the bathroom. 

He showers quickly, then dries off and hangs the towel over the rack above the heater. His dressing gown is draped over the edge of the sink, and it’s a bit chilly, so Bond hurries to pull it on. It’s still slightly warm from Q’s body. Bond flips the collar up to his ears and breathes in deeply.

It smells like Q.

And Bond smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	5. Day 101

Q stands in front of the mirror with a frown, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt nervously. He still can’t believe that he let Bond talk him into this, but there is no going back now. 

It had been an ordinary day at Six, at least, that was what Q thought, until Bond appeared halfway through his firewall testing and asked:

“Dinner?” 

“Sure,” Q replied distractedly, not looking up from the computer. “Anything’s fine.”

“Q,”

“Hm?”

“Q, stop for a second.”

He looked up at Bond, but his fingers never stopped moving over the keyboard, his mind still focussed primarily on work while the rest of him engaged less than half-time in their conversation. But Bond wore a serious expression and it was worrying enough that Q stopped typing to give him his full attention.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to have dinner with you.”

“I’ll be done in about an hour. We can order Sun Tong Luck.”

“No, Q, I want to have a real dinner with you,” Bond elaborated.

“Take away is real dinner,” Q replied.

“Let me rephrase this: I want to take you out to dinner.”

Q blinked at him, because that was certainly not what he expected to hear.

“You want to take me out?”

“To dinner, yes.”

Q was confused. And suspicious. 

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Bond answered. “Can’t I just want to take you out?”

Q glanced down at his wrinkled shirt and cardigan, the tea stains on his cuffs. He brought a hand up to his wild hair and made an attempt to flatten it, but stopped himself and looked at Bond with incredulity. 

“You’re serious.”

“Of course.” 

Q removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with a sigh. 

“Okay, sure. Whenever you want, just let me know the time.”

Bond didn’t say anything, just kissed him and disappeared from Q’s office. It was very strange. Bond never kissed him in public, let alone at work.

Q keeps thinking about Bond’s behaviour and feels uncertain as to where the evening is heading. He gives himself another glance over in the mirror and his shoulders slump in defeat. Wherever Bond wants to take him is nice and expensive, judging from the instructions that Bond gave to dress in his nicest suit. The problem is that Bond naturally looks like he’s walking from one dinner party to the next, whereas Q only owns two suits, only one of which would be up to Bond’s standards. 

“What do you think?” Q asks, and looks over his shoulder. 

Einstein watches him from the bed, unimpressed, and then proceeds to lick his own bollocks.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Q mumbles, looking back at the mirror, “but it’s going to have to do.”

He straightens his tie and tries to muster up whatever confidence he has before stepping out into the living room. Bond is sitting on the couch in one of his gorgeous Westwoods--the navy one that Q has a particular fondness for--and that makes Q want to shrink back into the bedroom to hide. But he doesn’t have the chance to escape, because Bond notices him. Immediately, Bond stands and comes closer to give Q a once-over that is so neutral, Q doesn’t know what to think.

“What you see is what you get. Too late to trade me in, I’m afraid,” Q says, trying for humour. 

He doesn’t expect Bond to come up to him and place his hands on his hips. 

“You look amazing,” he says, and there’s no artifice in it, which makes Q almost believe him. 

“So where are we going?” Q asks, changing the subject before he can start feeling even more embarrassed. 

“You’ll see,” Bond says.

But Q is not quite prepared to have the car pull up outside of L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon. He doesn’t even want to know how Bond managed reservations. 

“You’re gaping,” Bond says, as he helps Q out of the car and tosses his keys to the valet.

“It’s L’Atelier,” Q replies. He’s never even been close to Michelin star dining before, so it’s new and slightly overwhelming. He’s Quartermaster of MI6--with enough power to start wars around the globe without ever having to step foot outside of his flat in London--but he suddenly feels under accomplished and minuscule. He blames his nervousness on the slightly ill-fitting suit, on the disconcerting way that Bond takes his arm and opens doors for him. 

The anxiety triples when they are inside, when people turn their heads to look at them as they approach the hostess, then as they walk through the restaurant to their table on the upper floor. After the first few identical reactions, Q just keeps his head down. He hates the way people look at them, when they see Bond--tall, handsome, and sharply dressed--and then then notice Q--wiry and pale, poorly attired, hair a disheveled mess despite his best attempts--beside him. Their judging glances are not so much disapproval that they are both men, but something akin to disappointment that such a good-looking man does not have an equally good-looking partner.

Q feels a heated blush of embarrassment and inadequacy creep along the back of his neck, burning at the tips of his ears. He has an IQ well over the average and, always valuing intelligence over everything else, had never cared much about his physical appearance or what others thought of him. But on Bond’s arm, he becomes painfully aware of his shortcomings and feels struck with a sense of vulnerability. This is Bond’s world, not his. He does not belong here with all the pretty people in their dinner jackets and furs. He belongs back in the lab, where he can spend the long hours alone, eating cold pot noodles while creating new algorithms to enhance MI6 security.

As they are led to a private, tucked-away table, Bond presses his fingers tenderly against the inside of Q’s wrist, as if to calm him. He always knows just how much pressure to use to not hurt Q, and his care sends a calming sort of relief through him. 

They are seated and left alone with menus that are entirely in French, which Q is relieved to find he can partially read, even after not managing A Levels in the language.

“So what’s the occasion?” Q asks conversationally.

“No occasion,” Bond answers.

“You just decided you wanted to go to one of the most expensive restaurants in town for no occasion?”

“Exactly.”

Q puts the menu down. 

“Okay, explain,” Q says. 

“Explain what?” Bond asks.

“What’s all this?” 

“Dinner.”

“It’s very...posh,” Q comments. “Maybe too posh?” 

Bond looks a little disappointed, and Q feels it like a punch to the gut.

“Not that it’s not nice! Really it is! It’s just… well, there is a lot of flatware on this table…not even sure what half of these are for…” Q says, tapping at one of the forks. 

“Do you want to go?” Bond asks. He doesn’t seem angry. In fact, his disappointment is not at Q, but at himself. 

“No, no, of course not,” Q says, and picks up his menu to hide behind it. He feels a fool for how he’s treating Bond, but he’s also uncomfortable. This is a date. They’ve never been on a date before. Despite the fact that Bond is moved in with him and they spend all of their free time together, Q has never recognised them as a couple. They shag, yes, sometimes not, but they aren’t together. 

Are they?

“I’m sorry,” Bond says.

Q peeks over the edge of his menu. 

“I just… all this time. I’ve never taken you anywhere,” Bond says. 

“You don’t have to take me anywhere. I don’t expect it,” Q answers.

Bond looks at him like he understands what Q means by that, but before he can say anything, the server comes by to ask for their wine orders. With Q’s helpless look, Bond orders, and the server disappears. They are left in an awkward silence, and Q isn’t quite sure what to do to break it. But Bond beats him to it.

“I’d like to treat you. Every once in a while. If that’s okay?” Bond asks, and he doesn’t sound tentative, but something close to it. 

Q thinks he understands in that moment that they had both been thinking about the uncertainty of their relationship. But Bond has solidified his stance and now it’s Q’s turn. 

“I would be most delighted,” Q replies. 

Bond reaches for his hand, and Q lets him take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	6. Day 142

Bond doesn’t know how he doesn’t know, and he thinks he might be more upset by the fact that Q never told him if the situation had been different.

He and Q had been arguing about the outcome of a short, three-day mission from which Bond had just returned. Where Bond had thought certain measures necessary, Q had not.

“You set the embassy on fire--”

“Not the first time that’s happened--”

“Don’t look so smug. Your recklessness has severely hurt our reputation.”

Not caring much about reputation, Bond lounged back in his chair and propped his feet up on the side of Q’s desk. Q pushed them off, not even trying to be gentle with Bond’s healing burns.

“I know you don’t care, but I do. As head of this department, I’m responsible for your actions. Do you know that Mallory chewed me out for two hours?”

“Over a building?”

“An embassy, Bond. Not just any old building. The place has been shut down. Our nationals have no safe haven in a country that is bordering upon war. Not to mention that you’ve critically injured the British ambassador--”

“He’ll be fine.”

“ _She_ is in the burn unit after trying to save the lives of her administrative staff,” Q replied, and even though he didn’t raise his voice, he was madder than Bond had ever seen him. “You’ve got to think of how your actions affect other people.”

“Finishing the job is what matters,” Bond said.

“So the lives of innocent people are meaningless?” Q asked, just as coolly.

Bond stood up.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you insinuated it.”

Bond knew Q was right, but he wasn’t about to admit to that.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Bond said.

“Why? Because I’m right?” Q asked.

“No, because I don’t want to take this home with us,” Bond answered.

Q took in a sharp breath that sounded like it hurt.

“Don’t bring our personal life into this,” Q said warningly. “This has nothing to do with us.”

“It has everything to do with us.”

“Oh really? You think I’m not going to dress you down for insubordination when it’s warranted just because we’re shagging?”

Bond was about to reply when Q’s expression clouded and he turned his head to cough into the crook of his elbow.

“There won’t be any favouritism,” Q continued, when he finished. His voice sounded strained and his colour had turned poorly. Bond had never seen Q get so worked up before, to the point where he lost his composure, but his rapidly paling complexion told Bond that this was more than just an ordinary upset.

When Q clutches at his chest and begins wheezing, their argument becomes the furthest thing from Bond’s mind. Bond directs his lover into the nearest chair. He at first thinks it might be a panic attack, but when Q alternates between coughing and trying to breathe, Bond realises it’s more likely to be asthma. The rattle of his breath patently scares Bond. He’s heard people rasping like that before, usually as they died. Q’s pallor is disconcertingly similar in that moment, which rouses a spike of something like adrenalin in his blood.

“Do you have an inhaler?” Bond asks, and Q makes a vague gesture at his desk.

Immediately, Bond is round the other side, pulling out drawers with a ferocity that tears one right off the track, effectively breaking it. He finds the inhaler tucked in the corner of Q’s office tray and snatches it up quickly. When he brings it to Q, the other man accepts it with shaking fingers and takes one puff, then another a moment later.

It seems like an eternity before Q is breathing on his own again and without difficulty. His eyes are slightly damp, but the colour is returning to him in increments, and Bond feels some of the tension ease out of him.

Their row forgotten, Bond places a hand on Q’s upper arm, rubs at it until he feels Q’s shaking subside.

“Alright?” Bond asks, and Q nods.

Bond pulls up the second chair in front of Q’s desk and sits next to him. Q is not looking at him, running his thumbs over the curve of his inhaler.

“Do you want to have Medical check you out?” Bond asks, as Q sets the bronchodilator on the edge of his desk.

“I’m fine,” Q replies, voice slightly hoarse.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Bond breathes out a sigh.

“You really should have told me.”

“I haven’t had an attack in years...thought I’d grown out of it…”

“That’s beside the point. You should have told me. As a precaution, if nothing else,” Bond says, stroking back a loose strand of Q’s hair from his eyes.

“Well I never thought that someone could infuriate me to the point of triggering an attack like that.”

“Q--”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Q says, running a hand tiredly under his glasses to rub at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bond says, and means it.

Their row seems pointless now, something not worth having hurt Q over. Q drops his hand and regards Bond with a frown.

“For what? What you did? Or nearly killing me with all the stress?” Q asks.

“Both,” Bond says.

“Then say it.”

“I just did.”

“No, I mean say what you’re sorry for.”

“You’re getting a kick out of this.”

“No, but I want to hear you say it.”

Bond straightens up.

“I’m sorry for nearly killing you with the stress,” Bond says.

“And?”

“And for burning down the embassy.”

“And?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Two hours, James. Two _bloody_ hours with Mallory chewing me up and spitting me out,” Q answers.

“I’m sorry for you having to take part in Mallory’s mastication,” Bond says, and Q kicks him.

“You’re a bastard.”

Q leans back in his seat with a wince, rubbing at his chest with a look of discomfort.

“I am,” Bond admits, and leans forward to touch Q’s cheek. “Will you ever forgive me?”

“You’re unforgivable,” Q replies, but he’s smiling.

Bond kisses him.

“I really am sorry,” Bond says.

“I know. And I am, too...about this,” Q replies, and takes a shallow breath, “but I know there is going to be a next time. There always is with you. So, fair warning, _next time_ you’re getting all the disciplinary action I can rightfully throw at you.”

Bond grins.

“Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd (and this one gave me a bit of trouble) so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	7. Day 146

Bond is on leave for two weeks after his fuck-up mission in Croatia and, despite the events which led to the time off, Q is happy to have him home. It’s nice to not have to come back to an empty flat every night, to have someone to kiss and cuddle and sleep next to.

But after the incident in his office, Q immediately sees the difference in Bond’s behaviour. He’s much more agreeable, which is the first tip off, and constantly bringing Q tea, even when he does not need or ask for it. Q wonders if it’s Bond’s way of showing that he is making an effort to truly apologise, but then he realises it’s something else. 

“Are you coddling me?” Q asks, a few nights after their row. Since the moment Q walked in the door, Bond has not let him lift a finger, bringing him dinner and then tea and dessert on the sofa. He’s even gone so far as to rub Q’s feet while he looks over a report on his laptop. Einstein watches in envy from his place on top of the bookshelf. 

“Why would you say that?” Bond asks.

“You’re rubbing my feet.” 

“You look like you need it.”

Q sets his laptop aside and moves his legs from Bond’s lap, tucking his feet under him as he regards his lover. 

“What’s going on?” Q asks. 

“Nothing,” Bond answers. “I just wanted to help you relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Q says, narrowing his eyes. 

And then it clicks.

“You are coddling me,” Q says, “because of my asthma.” 

“Of course not,” Bond says.

Q points a finger at him.

“Liar.” 

Bond frowns, but doesn’t refute it. For a secret agent, he's terribly bad at keeping secrets. 

“James, listen. A lot of people have asthma,” Q explains. “That doesn’t make us all fainting flowers. We’re just like everyone else.”

“You just sometimes can’t breathe,” Bond says.

Q softens a bit, because it’s obvious that Bond is concerned for him but doesn’t know how to express it.

“It doesn’t happen often. I’ve got it under control. Like I said, I haven’t had an attack in a long time,” Q replies, and scoots closer to Bond. “It’s nice what you’re doing, but not necessary. I’m okay to take care of myself.” 

He rests his head on Bond’s shoulder, closing his eyes contently when Bond wraps him into an embrace. 

“You scared me,” Bond says into Q’s hair, his voice quiet, as if he is afraid someone will overhear and pass judgement on him. 

“I’m sorry,” Q says. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Q sighs. 

“I didn’t want your pity. Or your coddling. It’s hard enough to get respect looking as young as I do--”

“You _are_ young--”

“Thirty-three isn’t that young.”

“Younger than me.”

“Everyone’s younger than you. You’re a relic.” 

Bond tickles at his side in retaliation for the jab, and Q tries to wriggle away, but is held hostage by the other man’s arms. He laughs himself until he can barely breathe, and Bond notices and backs off. 

“I’m fine,” Q pants, slightly dizzy with endorphins, but feeling too good to find complaint in it. 

“You’re sure?” 

Q puts his arms round Bond’s shoulders.

“I can keep up with you, you know.” 

Something wicked lights Bond’s eyes. 

“Noted,” Bond says, and begins tickling Q without restraint. 

When Q finally admits defeat, he is exhausted, too weak to do much else but lounge across Bond’s lap for the rest of the evening. Bond pets at his hair in a way that makes Q feel adored, and if he could purr like a cat, he would.

“I wouldn’t respect you any less,” Bond says. 

Focussed on the programme on the telly, Q doesn’t quite catch on to what Bond means. 

“For what?” he asks. 

“For a medical condition,” Bond elaborates. 

Q turns in his lap and looks up at him. 

“You started treating me differently,” Q says. 

“Not because I didn’t respect you. I was just worried,” Bond answers. 

“I know, but things changed. You saw me as _other_ for a moment, not healthy, someone who might not be able to do things on their own,” Q explains. “You didn’t mean it maliciously. Most people don’t. But sometimes those thoughts lead to the misconception of weakness and that alters the way people act.” 

Bond sits quietly, and Q can see that he is taking that information in, viewing the situation from a different standpoint. 

“As I was saying before,” Q continues, “it’s hard enough to get respect with how I look. There are already plenty of people who think I can’t do my job. Add an illness on top of that, even a well-managed one, and suddenly, I’m no longer capable to have my position.” 

“You’ve given thought to this,” Bond says. 

“Since a young age. Illness was all people saw. They didn’t care about anything else but that. It was frustrating. But if no one knew, no one would treat me differently.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Not really ashamed, just cautious. Probably a good thing it’s not public record, either. That’s something a captor could use against me.”

“You say that like you expect to be kidnapped.”

“No, but it’s a real possibility with my title, you can’t deny it.”

Bond leans over him and his expression is so serious that Q stops breathing. He’s never seen Bond’s eyes look like this before, so piercing and blue that it’s almost painful.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Bond says. “I promise.” 

Q smiles, and some of the fierceness leaves Bond’s gaze.

“I believe you,” Q says. 

Bond kisses him and Q kisses back. 

It feels like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	8. Day 204

It’s been nearly two months since Bond has been home for more than forty-eight consecutive hours and near the end of September, he finally gets a well-deserved break. He spends the first two days sleeping, only waking briefly when Q kisses him goodbye in the morning and for a few hours in the evening for dinner or the few odd times that Einstein comes and starts scratching on him for food when he’s hungry in the middle of the afternoon.

By the third day, Bond feels more like himself. He dresses immaculately and goes in for a Medical eval and a much delayed debrief that lasts far too long. Even Moneypenny gives a surprised glance at her watch when he emerges, but he runs off before she can engage him in conversation. 

It’s his first day of consciousness since returning and he intends on spending it with Q, whom he has had little contact with in the past two months due to the level of infiltration required for his previous mission.

“He’s gone home,” says R, when Bond comes poking round Q branch in search of the man. “Do you have equipment for me?” 

Bond does indeed have equipment--all of it in pristine condition--but he wants to wait to give it to Q personally. So he feigns ignorance, and disappears before R can open a Hellmouth to punish him, catching a taxi back to Q’s flat. The lights are on when he arrives, and the first thing he sees is Einstein, who jumps up onto his trouser leg with a loud cry for attention. The next thing that comes to his attention is the music, some sort of slow orchestral music that plays quietly from their sound system. 

Then there’s the third thing.

“Are you cooking?” Bond calls, and hears the clatter of dishes onto the counter. Bond picks up the yowling cat and heads for the kitchen, just as Q emerges from the room. His glasses are fogged up and he looks a bit of a mess. Behind him, there’s a pot of something boiling on the hob and a saucepan with something that smells rather good. The dishes are safely sitting beside the sink, waiting to be plated. 

“You have impeccable timing. I was just about to message you,” Q says, and takes the struggling Einstein from Bond’s arms, kissing Bond on the cheek as he does so. Immediately, Einstein’s a fluffy ball of angelic purrs instead of the hellion of sharp teeth and claws.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Bond says, as he strips out of his jacket and into his shirtsleeves. 

“It’s not really cooking. Just pasta,” Q replies. “I’ve had to fend for myself while you’ve been away.” 

“I’m sorry about that, love. It smells delicious,” Bond says, and this time, he is the one to place a kiss on Q’s cheek. “Need any help?”

“Just relax. I’ve got this. Unless you want to open the wine?” Q asks, nodding over his shoulder to the bag on the counter. 

“With pleasure,” Bond says, grabbing some glasses from the cabinet. Inside the bag is a tasteful red that Bond opens and allows to breathe for a few minutes. While he waits, Bond turns round and leans against the counter to watch Q work. He is in a vest and a loose pair of track bottoms that sit low on his hips. After two months of mission-related work and very little play, Bond is quite appreciative. 

“How was Mallory?” Q asks conversationally, just as Bond comes up behind him and places his hands at Q’s hips. 

“Dull as usual,” Bond says, and noses at Q’s neck. “Let’s not talk about work.”

“What do you want to talk about then?” Q asks. 

“Where you learnt to cook.”

“Like I said before, it’s just pasta.”

“But you’ve never cooked.”

“I sometimes do, when I have good reason to.”

“Oh?” Bond replies, sliding his fingers below Q’s waistband. “And what’s your good reason?” 

“You’ve been away for two months. I thought a home cooked meal might be nice. Even if it’s not five star dining,” Q replies, pinching at the back of Bond’s hand in reprimand. But when he glances back at Bond, there is a promise in his smile that says _later_.

“Well that’s a good reason,” Bond says, settling for moving his arms round Q’s waist. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Q smiles and goes back to stirring at his pasta, then his sauce. Bond holds on to him loosely, swaying his hips slightly to the music still playing in the living room. 

“What are you doing?” Q asks. 

“Dancing,” Bond says. 

“That’s not dancing.” 

“Of course it’s dancing.” 

“No, if you’re going to dance with me, you’re going to do it properly.”

“Oh? Would you like to dance?” Bond asks. 

“I’ve got dinner on,” Q says. “After?” 

“Of course.” 

Ten minutes later, they are seated at the small dine in table next to the kitchen, tucking into a hot meal of pasta with red sauce, hot garlic bread straight from the oven, and two glasses of rich Merlot. Q catches Bond up on what he’s missed, everything from telly to gossip, and in return, Bond shares a few humourous stories from his assignment. 

“I even brought the equipment back in one piece,” Bond says, and Q’s eyebrows go up into his fringe. 

“Now that’s cause for celebration,” Q says, and holds up his glass.

They toast and then drink, finishing the rest of their meal in light conversation. After, they bring their dishes into the kitchen and clean up a bit. They stand side by side, Q washing and Bond drying. It’s nice, Bond thinks, to come home to this. He never thought he would like something so ordinary and domestic, but he does. A quiet patch of time in an otherwise oppressively loud world. 

When they are done, Q leads Bond out into the living room by the hand. The music is still playing, as softly as it had in the background of their dinner. 

“Dance with me?” Q asks. 

“A promise is a promise,” Bond says, taking one of Q’s hands in his. The other he settles at Q’s waist. “You know, I’m learning all kinds of things about you tonight. I didn’t know you could cook or that you liked to dance.” 

“Well, it’s all about having the right partner.” 

Bond leads them through the steps. He has to admit that he’s never danced this way before, in his shirtsleeves and socks. Q is probably his most casually-dressed partner ever, in his house clothes and bare feet. Still, there’s something about it that Bond finds he likes, even more than the immaculate parties with men and women in designer labels. 

Q stumbles a bit, clumsy at the first few turns, and Bond is careful to not step on his toes as he leads him. But Q soon finds a rhythm and his steps become more fluid with Bond’s guidance.

“You’re good,” Bond says. 

“It’s my first time,” Q admits. 

Bond tightens his clasp on Q’s hand. 

“No one has ever…?” Bond asks. 

“No,” Q answers, looking down at his feet as he says it. 

“You’re a natural.”

Q glances up briefly and smiles. 

“I’ve...wanted to try. Dancing, I mean,” Q says, “with you.”

“Oh?”

“For a while now...but mostly after this last assignment.” 

Bond doesn’t understand at first, and then it clicks. 

“You mean the gala?” Bond asks, and Q nods, not halting their dance. “You were watching?”

“We were tapped in to the CCTV, just as extra eyes. We were only going to intervene if we had to,” Q answers, “but I saw. You’re very talented.”

Bond knows what Q means without him having to spell it out.

“She didn’t mean anything,” Bond says. 

“I know. It’s the job. I know.”

“You know I’m careful. Always. And I get checked by Medical after every mission to make sure.” 

“I know. I trust you. More than anyone.”

Q still isn’t looking at him, but he isn’t watching his feet any more either. He rests his cheek against Bond’s shoulder and they continue to dance even after the disc ends. 

“I do too,” Bond says. 

“Hmm…?” 

“Trust you. More than anyone.”

Q makes a happy sound against Bond’s clavicle.

“We should do this more often,” Bond says, and Q chuckles. 

“We should.”

They wind down to a stop after some time and Q gets up on the tips of his toes to kiss Bond. It’s more than just the peck they shared in the kitchen upon his return. It’s the kind of kiss that sets Bond’s nerve endings alight and makes him feel _alive_.

“God, I missed you,” Bond says, and Q grins as he takes his hand. 

Q leads him to the bedroom, turning out the lights on the way, and when they are in bed-- _their_ bed--Q puts his arms round Bond’s shoulders and kisses him again. 

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	9. Day 237

Q didn’t want to admit it, but he had been feeling lonely.

It seemed that he had just gotten Bond back, only to have him return to the field just over a week later. After two months in deep cover, Q had thought Bond might get a well-deserved break, perhaps enough time off that they could take a short holiday somewhere, just the two of them. But MI6 got intel on a certain name after two years of silence and needed Bond to go to Singapore to kill a man. Q knew that Bond was too patriotic to say _no_ , so there was nothing that he could do except kiss Bond goodbye and send him out on the next flight from Heathrow. 

After another month, Bond returned home, but not in one piece. 

“I can’t believe you hurt yourself this badly,” Q says, as he brings Bond a cup of coffee. 

The other man is situated on the couch, his leg bound in a black splint and propped up on several pillows. 

“It’ll heal,” Bond says, accepting the beverage with a smile. “And at least I’m back for a little while.”

“Well aren’t you all silver linings?” Q replies, as he takes his seat in the chair next to the sofa. 

“Aren’t you happy to have me back?”

“I’d have liked to have you back without a broken leg.”

“It’s a hairline fracture.”

“It’s broken in three places.”

“Don’t be so negative.”

“ _Three places_ , James.” 

Bond laughs and sets his coffee down on the table. Einstein jumps up and sniffs at it, depositing several hairs in the beverage, before stalking off to go sit on the windowsill.

“You’ll just have to take care of me, then.” 

Q sits back and sighs. 

“Of course I will,” Q says, “I just worry. You get reckless sometimes. No, scratch that. All the time.”

“Come here,” Bond says, and Q comes to him, kneeling beside the sofa. 

Bond rests his weight on the arm of the couch as he leans forward to kiss Q very softly on the lips. Q’s eyes flutter shut at the light touch. It’s amazing what the slightest brush of Bond’s lips can do to him after going so long without.

“I’ll try to be more careful,” Bond says. 

“I’ve heard that one before,” Q replies, and kisses Bond’s chin before he stands up. His back cracks when he stretches and Bond makes a sympathetic sound. “I’m going to shower. Do you need anything before I go?”

“A new leg,” Bond says. 

“I can have a prototype in 72 hours,” Q answers, with absolute seriousness. 

Bond laughs. 

“Let’s try something a bit more immediate,” Bond suggests, and points at Q’s bookshelf. A few of Bond’s things are there: some books, a few discs, an ugly porcelain bulldog that Bond is exceedingly fond of. But he is pointing at something on the bottom shelf that Q has never noticed before, mixed in with his volumes on programming. “Can you grab that black book? And the case on top?”

Q goes and fetches the book and the small black case with a curious expression, but when Bond does not divulge, Q leaves him without question and goes into the bedroom. If Bond wants to tell him what it is, he will, and until then, Q knows better than to pry. He takes a long shower, wishing perhaps a bit _too_ hard that Bond could join him, and only gets out when the water turns cold. After, he dries off and dresses in track bottoms and a tee, then returns to the living room. 

Bond has the book open on his lap. 

And he’s drawing. 

“I didn’t know you liked to draw,” Q says, as he goes to his chair to sit down. 

“Old hobby of mine,” Bond replies. He is not looking at Q, but at Einstein, who is dozing by the window. 

“Can I see?” Q asks. 

“It’s not...finished…” Bond says, and Q senses his discomfort and holds up his hand. 

“I understand,” Q says, not at all hurt. He understands artists, in a way, because he himself is one. Only where there are brushstrokes and sketch lines for artists, there are algorithms and equations for Q. 

Without another thought, Q picks up his laptop as Bond returns to his sketch. The time passes in comfortable quiet as Q does some minor programming for a side project he’s been working on in Bond’s absence. As he falls into the rhythm of keystrokes, he listens as Bond’s pencil moves over the page, and there’s a soothing music to it that Q swears boosts his creativity. 

“Can you turn on the light?” Bond asks, breaking the quiet. 

Q sits up a little straighter and looks round the room, not realising how dark it’s gotten. He glances at the clock in the corner of his screen. Somehow, three hours have passed without him noticing. Rubbing at his eyes, Q gets up and flips on the overheads, casting the room into much more suitable illumination. 

“Thanks,” Bond says. 

While Q is up, he heats up another cup of coffee for Bond and makes himself some tea. When he settles down again, he shifts into a more comfortable position, throwing his legs over the arm of the chair. 

“Why are you sitting like that?” Bond asks. 

“Hmm?” Q replies, and looks down at his slumped form. “Oh, taking a break for a bit. Going to look up videos of cats. Want to watch?” 

“It’s bad for your posture,” Bond says. 

“Are you the posture police now?” Q asks, chuckling when he finds a hilarious YouTube video of Siamese cats crying while their owner is in the shower. Einstein comes to investigate, going so far as to jump on his lap to watch the video with him. 

“Just a suggestion.”

“I’ve got a cat on me now. There’s no going back.” 

Bond doesn’t say anything, and Q gets through a few videos before he speaks again. 

“I was drawing you.”

Q pauses his video and glances over his shoulder at Bond, trying to control his blush.

“Wh--did you say you were drawing me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re an excellent subject,” Bond answers, and Q is definitely blushing now. Bond notices--it’s hard not to when Q goes tomato red, he knows--and laughs at him before continuing: “You’ve got a nice profile. And you hold still without me having to ask you to.” 

“Oh,” Q says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. But then his manners catch up with him and he blurts out an inelegant: “Sorry.” And then: “Do you want me to..?”

He’s already shifting his position, sending Einstein to the floor as he situates himself as he had been before. 

“You don’t have to,” Bond says, and it looks like he regrets having said anything. 

“No, it’s fine. I’d like you to be able to finish,” Q replies, and props his feet up on the table. “Erm, was I like this, or..?”

“Like that is fine,” Bond says with a smile that puts Q at ease, at least for the moment. 

The moment Bond begins sketching again, Q feels himself beginning to tense. He cannot focus on the programme in front of him, hyper aware that Bond is studying him, making him into art. It makes him uncomfortable to be looked at in such a way, almost like Bond is admiring him, and Q feels all of his insecurities rising up in a rush. 

“Are you okay?” Bond asks. 

“Yeah,” Q says. 

“You’re tense.”

“You can tell?”

“Are you trying to keep it a secret?” 

Q sighs. 

“Guess I’m not doing too good a job,” Q says. 

“No, not really,” Bond replies, and puts his pencil down. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“A bit.”

“I can stop if you’d like.”

“No, it’s fine. Really. I want you to finish.”

“Why does it make you nervous?” Bond asks. His pencil scratches against the paper, and Q wishes he could watch, but he keeps his unfocussed gaze on the screen before him instead. 

“I don’t know...I guess I don’t like people looking at me.”

“Why not?”

“Because. It’s unnerving.”

“Does it bother you when I look at you?”

“Sometimes,” Q admits. 

“Why?” Bond asks. 

“I’ve just...never had anyone look at me like you do.” 

“I like looking at you. Is that a bad thing?” 

Q wishes the flush in his cheeks would go away, trying for a more controlled tone as he says: 

“Just try not to make it a habit.”

Bond laughs. Q pulls up videos of cats again in an effort to ignore him. They don’t say anything for the next half hour or so, until Bond puts his pencil down and asks:

“Do you want to see?”

Q nods, and leans closer to Bond as he turns the pad around. His fingers are smeared with graphite, but Q is not looking at that. He is captivated by the image on the paper. Somehow, Bond’s lines look alive, everything from the sweep of hair to the angle of jaw and the curve of lips. But what is most captivating are the eyes. Even behind glasses, they are expressive and bright, brimming with a humanity that Q never imagined could be captured on paper. In fact, Q doesn’t even recognise himself as the subject, because he can’t imagine himself to be that breathtaking.

“What do you think?” Bond asks. 

Q realises then that he’s been staring with open admiration for several minutes without speaking.

“It’s amazing,” Q says.

“It’s you.”

“It can’t be.”

“Why not?” 

“I dunno...it’s too beautiful I guess,” Q says, examining the image again. 

“You are beautiful,” Bond says, and Q swears he goes red from the roots of his hair all the way to his chest. 

“Stop it.” 

“You are. Absolutely inspirational.” 

The blush intensifies and Q hides in the crook of his arm. 

“Now you’re just embarrassing me,” Q mumbles. 

“I’m not,” Bond says, and looks at the portrait, then at Q. “I’m still not even sure I did you justice.” 

Q clears his throat, hoping to divert the topic away from him. 

“When did you learn to draw?” he asks.

“I’ve been drawing since I was young. Didn’t do much with it, but it’s nice to pass the time,” Bond replies. 

“I think you missed your calling.” 

It’s Bond’s turn to look embarrassed, but he doesn’t blush, and Q is a bit jealous of that. 

“You should do it more often,” Q says. 

“Yeah?” Bond asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Well I’ve got a lot of time on my hands, maybe I will. So long as you’ll sit for me again?”

“Am I your muse now?” Q asks. 

Bond leans back on the arm of the sofa and regards him with a smile that Q has never seen before. There’s something in it that transcends fondness and adoration, but Q doesn’t know quite what it is. All he knows is that no one has ever looked at him like that in his entire life. And he likes it. 

“Yes, I think you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:**  
>  Everything and everything by Yeonbee is an inspiration to me, but most specifically [this work,](http://yeonbee.tumblr.com/post/49612529308) which is sort of what I pictured when writing this chapter. 
> 
> As with the others, this is unBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	10. Day 283

It is less than two weeks to Christmas Eve when Bond asks Q if he wants to go out and take a walk round Trafalgar Square that evening.

“Will you be okay?” Q asks, and Bond holds up his cane in reply.

“As long as you’re okay walking round with an old man,” Bond says.

His leg is mostly healed, but he has yet to go to his first round of physical therapy. They say that he’ll be back in the field by the end of January if all goes well, and Bond is hoping for it. He doesn’t think he can spend another minute cooped up in the flat, and an evening out is just what the doctor ordered.

They have an early dinner and spend an hour or so walking with the crowds in the square, looking at the gigantic spruce tree all lit up with lights and baubles. They follow a lively crowd of carolers singing holiday songs and stop at a streetside stand to get hot cocoa and warm nuts. It’s something normal that Bond never pictured himself doing, but he's enjoying it all the same. He has Q on his arm, wrapped up in his muffler and wool hat against the cold, smiling with rosy cheeks at the cheerful music and elaborate shop displays, and Bond thinks himself exceedingly lucky. 

But that feeling abruptly disappears when Q’s smile fades and he comes to a dead stop beside him. His gaze is focussed on the other side of the street, but there are so many people that Bond does not know who or what he is looking at so intently.

“Q?” Bond asks, directing them both to the kerb so that they do not break the flow of walking traffic. “Everything alright?”

“Can we go over there?” Q asks, not answering him, not looking at him, his eyes still fixed on a particular point across the street.

Bond has never seen Q act like this before. He’s seen Q focussed on work and he’s seen Q daydream, but this is an in-between that is new, and Bond does not know what it means. So he takes Q’s arm and leads him across the street at the nearest crossing. Q is practically pulling him along once they make it to the other side and Bond is struggling to keep up with his cane.

“Q, what’s--”

But Q breaks away from him and begins weaving through the crowd so quickly that Bond has a moment of fear that he will not be able to catch up. He manages to keep Q in sight, and within a few minutes, they end up back at the square. It eases some of the claustrophobia of the narrow street pavements, but there still are so many people about that Bond almost loses Q in all of it. He catches sight of Q’s red cap and hobbles after him, grasping his elbow a few meters later.

“Where are you running off to?” Bond asks.

“Nowhere. Nothing…” Q says, then looks at Bond and his cane guiltily. “Do you want to sit?” Q indicates a free space near the fountain.

“Alright…” Bond answers, unsure what has gotten into Q.

They sit on the edge of the fountain between a family of five and another couple. Bond stretches his leg out. It doesn’t hurt, but he feels a bit tired after weeks with little exertion.

“What’s going on?” Bond asks.

Q doesn’t look at him. His gaze is again on the surrounding mass of people. Bond turns his attention in the direction Q is staring, but doesn’t know exactly what it is he is supposed to be looking at. There are families and tourists everywhere eating, dancing, taking photographs. Children seem to have been gathered en masse and their giggling can be heard from all parts of the square. Right in front of them, there’s a woman trying to get her three unruly children to stand still for a picture with the Christmas tree in the background. The man with her starts laughing at her efforts and she turns to give him a scolding look. Bond feels his breath catch at her expression, the same one he’s seen a thousand times before. And suddenly, he understands.

“Q…”

“It’s nothing.”

Bond glances at Q out of the corner of his eye. He’s pulled his muffler over his mouth and has his head down as if he is examining his trainers. But Bond can tell that he is watching her.

He is watching the woman who has the same eyes as him, the same lips and brows and nose and skin and hair.

“Is she…?”

“My sister,” Q says, and Bond can hear the hurt in his voice when he utters the word.

“Are you...?”

“Twins? Yes.”

Bond looks back at her. At the children. He sees Q’s face in all of them. 

“I never met them.”

“Who?”

“My brother-in-law. My nieces and nephew.”

They are laughing. The man picks up the youngest girl and swings her around until she’s shrieking in delight. Q is no longer watching them.

“You have a family,” Bond says.

He wonders why Q has never mentioned them before.

“ _Had_ a family,” Q replies, and nods in his sister's direction. “She thinks I’m dead. My parents, too. In the 7/7 Bombings.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond sees the family moving away. The woman smiles at her husband and Bond sees nothing but Q in her, and for some reason it’s painful.

“Why did you disappear?” Bond asks.

“Had to. I was involved with MI5 at the time and deeply immersed in a highly classified project with links to the terrorist attacks that day. But something went wrong… the majority of us on that investigation were exposed somehow. We had to disappear, for our families’ sake,” Q explains, and lets out a breath. “I don’t regret doing it. I only regret not being able to say goodbye, to explain to her _why_ this happened.”

Bond puts his arm round Q, who turns into him immediately for the comfort.

“She mourned me for a long time,” Q continues. “She still does. Visits my grave and everything. I check up on her and Mum and Dad when I can, but I haven’t been this close in a long time. It’s too dangerous.”

Q pulls back and looks up at him with a horrified expression.

“Do you think--?”

“I think it’s alright,” Bond says. “The crowd is too confusing. Even I wouldn’t be able to pinpoint who you were following.”

Q’s shoulders sag a bit, but there is a worried line between his brows that says he is not convinced.

“I’ll have to wipe the footage,” he says. “I’ve protected them this long.”

He makes a frustrated sound.

“It was stupid of me. I should have just kept walking…”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Bond says. "Not at all."

Q sighs and leans his head against Bond’s shoulder.

“I thought...with time it would get easier,” Q admits, “but I think it just gets harder.”

“That’s the funny thing about time,” Bond says. “As it passes, it’s supposed to help you forget, but sometimes it forces you to remember.”

They remain in a half embrace for a long time, until the tension in Q’s body drains and they are both suddenly aware of the cold. 

“Let’s go home,” Bond says, and holds out his hand to Q.

Neither of them has a family anymore, but they have a flat and a cat and a small Christmas tree on the windowsill. And they have each other, for now, for a while, Bond hopes, and that's something he's never expected to have. And he's happy.

“Yeah,” Q agrees, and manages a smile as he puts his hand in Bond’s.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	11. Day 299

It’s New Year’s Eve and it seems like everyone is looking forward to an evening out with friends and loved ones, but Q is in the lab when the last few minions are filing out.

“Sir.”

Q glances up to see R, already dressed in her winter coat. The only thing that tells Q she has plans are her cherry red heels and matching lipstick.

“Plans tonight?” Q asks with a grin.

“Something like that,” R says, a hint of a smile of her own. “What about you?”

“Late shift for me. I switched last minute with Shahida, so I’ll be out at 0600,” Q answers, and R frowns.

“On New Year’s Eve?”

“The world might be in danger. 2014 and all.”

R tilts her head.

“007 hasn’t returned yet, has he?”

Q tries to smile but doesn’t quite manage it.

He hasn’t heard anything from Bond in over ten hours. Against Medical’s orders (but on Mallory’s authority) Bond had taken an escort mission in France. The agreement had been reached between Mallory and the PM that at least one Double-Oh would participate in the escort, and with 004 in Latvia, 006 in China, and 0012 training a slew of new recruits in the Scottish highlands, Bond had been the only choice left. Q didn’t like it and had fought Mallory’s decision on behalf of Bond’s health, but in the end, bureaucracy won out and Bond was gone. Q worried like mad the entire time, because Bond still had to wear a brace for his leg and wasn’t quite physically up for the assignment after nearly two months of bedrest. Fortunately, the escort went smoothly with no complications, and the only complaint Bond had was that it was too boring.

In Q’s book, boring was better than getting shot at, and it meant that Bond would make it back in time for New Year’s Eve. And while Q isn’t a romantic, he had been looking forward to an evening alone together, making sure to change the sheets and stock up on some of their dwindling bedside essentials. He had even splurged on a bottle of expensive champagne, which is currently chilling in the refrigerator at home.

But Q doubts there will be an evening in tonight, if the radio silence is telling him anything.

In all honesty, he’s a bit nervous to think what might have happened. There are ten thousand different things that could have gone wrong, all of which Q can think of in both alphabetical and scale intensity order. So Q is staying in branch in case Bond calls and needs assistance, because he knows that until that happens, at least burying himself in work is better than pacing the flat and watching the clock.

“Q?”

Q realises that he’s staring at the screen projected on the wall, where Bond’s GPS tracker had gone offline earlier that day, as if he is expecting a change. He shakes his head, chasing his daydreams away.

“I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” R asks.

“I’m fine. Don’t you worry about a thing,” Q answers, and smiles. “Show her a good time tonight, yeah?”

R’s grin is wicked.

“Yes, sir.”

After she leaves, the lab is quiet. There are no voices or telephones or the sounds of dozens people typing. There is only the hum of machines, the rattle of the heating system, and Q’s quiet fingers against his keyboard. He tries not to think of Bond, but his mind keeps returning to him, wondering why the other man isn’t picking up his mobile or answering the comms. Is something wrong? Should Q be looking for him? Sending a team out to search for him in Lyons?

Q runs a tired hand over his face and swears that he’s going to kill Bond when he gets back. The man has probably taken ten years off his life with all the stress.

He goes back to work, immersing himself in upgrading the firewalls because it’s mind numbing and time consuming enough that Q doesn’t have to think much. It’s near ten-thirty when his mobile pings and Q hurriedly scrambles for the device on his workstation. There is an SMS message from Bond.  
  


* * *

 

 **Messages**                                                                             +44 20 xxxx xxxx                                                                           **Create New**

_31 DEC 2013 2237_

Office.

* * *

 

“James Bond, I am going to murder you,” Q growls, as he gets up from his workstation to make a beeline for his office. “I don’t even want to hear your excuses! It’s not that hard to send a text, heaven forbid pick up the phone and call to let me know you’re not dead at the bottom of the Seine!”

He pushes open the cracked door to his office as he finishes his rant, and he’s just about to continue his tirade when he sees what is waiting for him. His desk has been cleared of clutter and in the place of files, tools, and rolls of plans there are plates, crystal glasses, and real flatware on fabric napkins. There are candles, too, and a bottle of champagne chilling in an open cooler.

And responsible for it all, James Bond standing there as carefree as ever, in a dove grey suit that makes Q positively weak in the knees. Q still wants to be angry, but it’s very hard when faced with this.

“What was all that? About murdering me?” Bond asks.

“You… where have you--”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You can’t just… just sign off like that without telling me. I thought something had gone wrong.”

“Even I can handle an escort mission, Q.”

“Your tracker fell off the grid.”

“You don’t understand the definition of a surprise, do you?”

“I was worried! Anything could have happened!”

“This happened.”

Bond gestures at the room and Q leans against the door frame, admiring the set up. He bites his lip, trying not to smile, because Bond should be admonished for his behaviour. But the sight of the candles and champagne and Bond, uninjured, is enough for him to forgive and forget. For now, anyway.

“Very impressive,” Q says. “How long have you been planning this?”

Bond grins, and Q isn’t sure if that means he’s been thinking about it for a while or if he just came up with it on the cuff.

“A gentleman never tells,” Bond replies, and pulls out Q’s office chair for him in invitation.

“Hmm and who else is in on this?” Q asks, as he takes a seat.

“A gentleman never reveals his sources,” Bond says.

“Ah, and such a gentleman you are,” Q replies teasingly.

Bond laughs, and all of the stress Q felt before melts away.

Their meal is simple and delicious and if Bond hadn’t told him it was takeaway, Q never would have known it wasn’t homemade. After they finish, they retire to the small sofa in the corner of Q’s office. He usually kips on it between projects if he’s stuck in the office for more than twelve hours; it’s also seen more of it’s fair share of their trysts when there isn’t enough time to get home before Bond leaves for an assignment.

Tonight, though, it’s for something else.

“Did you go home and take this out of the fridge?” Q asks, eyeing the bottle in Bond’s hand.

“You have good taste,” Bond says, grinning while he uncorks the bottle.

“You know, I’m still on the clock. I shouldn’t drink,” Q says, as Bond pours him a flute of champagne. It’s nearing midnight and Q’s phone and comms devices have been quiet. There’s been no word from any active agents or government organisations of impending threats or conspiracies. In fact, it’s one of the quietest nights that Q can remember, and he’s secretly grateful for it. Despite this, he doesn’t think it’s appropriate to get drunk when national security is in his hands until the next morning.

“Then I’ll drink for you,” Bond says, and takes the flute.

Q takes it back.

“One sip won’t hurt,” Q says, and holds up the glass. “Should we make a toast? It’s almost midnight.”

“Hmm… and what should we toast to?” Bond asks.

“World peace?” Q suggests, and Bond makes a face.

“Boring.”

“Oh, come on.”

“We’d be out the job.”

“There are worse things.”

Bond looks at him, then at his glass contemplatively. Q wonders if he has said the wrong thing, but then Bond turns his attention back to Q and smiles a bit like it hurts.

“There are.”

Q leans into Bond.

“Everything okay?” Q asks.

“Yeah,” Bond says, and holds up his flute. “What do you say we toast to us?”

“To us?”

“To us.”

Q realises then it’s been almost a year now since they since they started out. It’s unbelievable when he thinks about it, because somehow, Bond has become such a part of Q’s life that he cannot remember a time before him and does not want to imagine a future without him.

He tips his glass against Bond’s.

“To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you find any glaring errors~ xx


	12. Day 348

After a long and arduous recovery time with Medical’s physical therapists, Bond is finally sent back into the field in good health. It’s a miracle, Bond thinks, that he managed to pass the physical examinations again. In fact, as Mallory handed him his next assignment, he informed Bond that he is the first person to pass the tests at his age. While it’s flattering, Bond also knows a jab when he sees one.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Q said, and moved his arms round Bond’s shoulders to kiss him. “He just hates to admit that you’re the best we’ve got.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re an antique.”

Bond sucked a very pretty bruise on Q’s neck in retaliation for that one. He had to cover it for a week to avoid the stares and told Bond that he was lucky that it was cold enough in the basement levels that no one questioned why he was wearing a muffler inside.

“I’m sure it’s quite dapper,” Bond said.

“You can be sure that you _will_ pay for this when you return.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Focus, Bond.”

Even over the comms, Bond could hear the fondness in Q’s voice. Bond had to admit, it was nice going back to this. He had enjoyed being at home with Q, but the bedrest had put a damper on his perception of civilian life. Bond much preferred being out in the field, with the danger and excitement and adrenalin. The only thing that he truly missed was Q. It was a lot harder to sleep without the other man beside him; if Bond managed a few hours, he woke panicked when he reached for Q and found him not there.

Despite his thrill for the unexpected, when he calls HQ to wrap up some final details and get his flight itinerary, he gets a sick feeling in his stomach when the voice in his ear is not Q.

“Where’s Q?” Bond asks.

“He’s taken the day,” R answers, and she tries to evade questioning by launching into mission details, but Bond wants none of it.

“He wouldn’t take the day when I’m on assignment.”

R pauses a beat too long.

“He’s feeling under the weather,” she explains, “and thought it would be best to have someone else step in.”

“Under the weather,” Bond repeats. “He sounded fine yesterday.”

“One of those 24 hour bugs. He’ll be fine in no time. Now, if we could continue--”

Bond listens with only half an ear, fiddling with his personal mobile as he does so, firing off a quick text to Q.

* * *

 

 **Messages**                                                                           +44 20 xxxx xxxx                                                                    **Create New**

_10 FEB 2014 0937_

Is everything okay?

_10 FEB 2014 0944_

  
Fine here, don’t worry.  
Play nice with R.

_10 FEB 2014 0945_

And come hoem soon.  
In one piece, if you could.

* * *

 

 

Bond looks at the screen, at the words _come hoem soon_ and tries not to worry. Something is wrong, he knows that instinctually, knows that in the way that Q never sends a message with improper grammar or spelling. But he can’t do anything until he gets home. So Bond finishes the job in record time, catches his flight, and returns to London just after the evening commute. Not bothering with MI6, Bond takes a taxi directly to the flat, paying the driver extra to break speeding laws to get him there faster.

When he opens the door, he finds Q on the couch drinking tea and watching telly with Einstein lounging across his lap. It’s dark in the room, but Bond can see by the light of the telly that Q’s in a polo neck and his favourite pair of tartan pyjama bottoms. Bond didn’t know what to expect, but he knows that it wasn’t this. Q looks perfectly fine.

Q blinks at him, then looks at his watch.

“You’re early,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse, much like it had the time after his asthma attack.

“Are you sick?” Bond asks, dropping his bag in the foyer as he approaches the sofa.

“I’m fine,” Q says.

Bond turns on the light.

And that’s when he sees that Q is not fine, and it’s like the breath is crushed out of his lungs.

“What happened?”

“James--”

“ _What happened?_ ” Bond asks again, in a tone that scares Einstein into running and hiding beneath the kitchen table.

Q has a raised bruise around his right eye and a healing scrape on his chin. There’s a clotted wound on his forehead just under his fringe that looks swollen and painful.

“James, sit down,” Q says calmly, reaching for him.

His fingers are black and blue and he’s missing a few nails, the tips ragged and dark red with dried blood. Bond sits down, torn between anger and numbness at the sight before him. He touches Q’s cheek lightly with his fingers, trying to see the extent of the damage. It’s then that Bond notices that Q is wearing his spare lenses, the ones that Q says are a prescription too weak for him now, but that he keeps round the house just in case his other pair is damaged.

And judging from the small cuts in Q’s nose, they are. Bond doesn’t want to imagine the force required to break them into shattering, breaking off in Q’s skin.

“I’m fine,” Q tells him, putting his hand over Bond’s.

“What happened?” Bond asks again, because he can’t seem to make any other words come out of his mouth.

The hand over his squeezes gently, and Bond looks down between them. Beneath Q’s sleeve, Bond sees a bandage wrapped tightly around his wrist.

“I’ll explain, but you’ve got to look at me, alright?” Q replies, and when Bond does, he smiles. “I know it looks bad, but I’m okay, okay?”

Bond feels something hard stuck in his throat and cannot reply verbally, only managing a nod. Q brushes his thumb over the back of Bond’s hand in a comforting gesture, which feels wrong when Q is the one battered and hurt, in need of that comforting more than Bond.

“I was attacked last night,” Q says, in the same calm, collected voice he uses on the comms. “I took the last train home. I must have been tired… I didn’t even notice them. But anyway... I’m not sure if they knew who I was, but they were keen on getting my laptop bag.”

“You should have let them have it,” Bond says, tracing his finger lightly over Q’s mangled knuckles.

“I couldn’t just let them. Even though the computer is encrypted, I couldn’t risk it,” Q answers.

“It’s not worth your life,” Bond replies, perhaps harsher than he intended.

“Just as you’ve taken an oath, so have I,” Q says. “And the safety of all British citizens is worth my life.”

Bond looks away, because he knows Q’s right, but he can’t believe it looking at the damage before him.

“Anyway, I managed to take out two of them on my own, but the third one hurt me pretty badly before help arrived. I’m fortunate he didn’t completely rearrange my face.”

“Why didn’t you call?” Bond asks.

“I’m okay, just some bruising. A bump on the head. Could have been a lot worse,” Q says. “Thank MI6 for all the basic training they put us through.”

“You could have called.”

“You never call me.”

“I’m different.”

“No, you’re not.”

Bond looks at the bruises on Q’s face, his hands, and thinks _yes_ they are different. Worlds different.

“Who were they?” Bond asks.

“I’m not sure. The police arrested them. MI6 is looking into it now, to make sure they aren’t connected to anyone who has a grudge against us,” Q says. “They told me to stay home until then. I could have gone in. It’s really not that bad.”

“Let me see.”

“James…”

“Let me see.”

Q looks hesitant at first, but nods and removes his glasses. Then he takes hold of the bottom hem of his shirt and slowly pulls it over his head, removing the garment entirely so that he’s in nothing but his vest. Bond’s eyes take in everything: the deep scrapes on Q’s forearms, the bruising on his upper arms and clavicles. Someone had pushed him down; someone had grabbed him hard enough to leave marks in the shape of handprints on his skin.

But the worst is Q’s neck.

There are large, angry black marks around his throat. Bond can tell by the arrangement that Q’s attacker used significant force to get his hands in that position, that Q had fought against their hold. There are two distinct prints right below his Adam’s apple, a clear sign that the assailant had pressed his thumbs hard into Q’s trachea, attempting to cut off his airflow. As someone who had been on the receiving end of the same treatment, Bond knows how indescribably painful it is, how difficult it is to break away. The image of Q struggling under such an excruciating hold--hands clawing, feet kicking, mouth gasping--puts Bond into a quiet, deadly rage.

He wants to destroy the man who had done this.

Bond does not want to see that he faces justice, just as much as he does not want to end his life swiftly with a bullet to the head. Instead, Bond wants to take this man into a dark room, strap him down to a chair, and torture him. He wants to hurt him for days on end, make him feel fear and agony. Bond knows that it would not change what happened to Q, but that it _would_ make a difference. The man would die knowing he almost took something irreplaceably precious away from Bond, and that such a thing would not be tolerated.

Bond has no idea what sort of expression he wears, but can easily guess it’s ugly, and so he turns away from Q and gets up from the couch.

“James,” Q says, his voice cutting through Bond’s darkening thoughts like a slant of light. There is a gentle touch to his shoulder, Q’s warmth bringing Bond back in increments. Q rubs at his back in a soothing way, and Bond thinks again that it’s wrong that Q is comforting _him_ when it should be the other way around.

Bond turns and takes Q into his arms, holding him tenderly so that he doesn’t cause any more pain. Q leans into him with a sigh that Bond thinks might be of relief.

“They look worse than they are,” Q says softly against his neck.

Bond looks down, sees the bruises on Q’s shoulders, and feels that anger surging up again.

“James,” Q says, as if knowing what Bond is feeling in that moment. “Please.”

The single word completely disarms Bond, stripping away everything except the guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” Bond says, resting his cheek in Q’s hair.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I wasn’t here.”

“You can’t always be here, James.”

“I’m still sorry. You should be safe. You shouldn’t have to be afraid.”

“I know, but it’s the world we live in,” Q says, and tilts his head a bit to press a kiss against Bond’s lips.

Bond kisses him back, and despite his gentleness, Q flinches away when Bond’s stubble brushes against the wound on his chin.

“Sorry,” Q says, touching the scrape gingerly.

“No, I am,” Bond says, reaching for Q’s hand. The left isn’t as badly mangled as the right, and Bond hopes that his touch doesn’t hurt. He swallows against the slew of apologies he wants to give and asks: “Do you want to have a bath?”

Q gives him a tired smile.

“I’d like that very much.”

Bond leads him into ensuite and draws a bath, which they share. It’s amazing, when Bond thinks about it, how his hands can hurt and kill so easily, and yet, so gently touch Q’s body. He takes extra care as he smooths a warm flannel over the bruises, not wanting to cause Q any further discomfort. When the soap gets into an open scrape and makes Q cringe, Bond flushes it with water and then blows gently over the skin to help ease some of the sting.

“My Mum used to do that,” Q says, “when I was a kid.”

There’s something as hard and heavy as a stone in Bond’s chest when Q says this, when Bond recalls a distant memory of his own childhood with the mother and father he can barely remember.

“Mine, too.”

After their bath, Bond wraps Q in a towel and has him sit on the closed toilet lid so that he can dress some of his injuries. He puts medicine on the scrapes and wraps the worst of the bruises, then Bond kisses the bandages when he’s done. Q touches his cheek, and Bond presses his lips against his bandaged fingers.

“I’m okay,” Q says.

But Bond doesn’t believe him, because when they are in bed, in the dark, Q begins trembling beside him.

“Were you afraid?” Bond asks, stroking gently at Q’s hair.

“Yes,” Q admits. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking… I dunno. That it would happen again.”

Bond brushes Q’s hair from his face, mindful of the bruises on his forehead.

“I don’t want to be seen as a victim,” Q tells him. “And I don’t want to feel like one.”

He scoots closer to Bond and folds up impossibly small next to him.

“But I do,” Q finishes.

He moves his arm round Q and holds him protectively. He stills wants to find the men who did this and kill them slowly, but this is infinitely more important right now.

“It’s okay,” Bond says.

“I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	13. Day 383

The past month has been a rocky one.

Q’s bruises faded, but Bond’s anger hadn’t. The three men responsible for the attack were cleared by MI6 as having no relation to any known terrorist organisation or cell. Further investigation with Scotland Yard revealed that they were nothing but street thugs looking to make a quick cashout and had thought Q an easy target. Thankfully, they were imprisoned on assault charges--and severe ones for assaulting a high ranking member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service--where they would be safe from Bond... for the time being.

“I promise nothing upon their release date,” Bond said.

While Q understood where Bond was coming from, he couldn’t just let that happen for moral reasons. So Q quietly arranged a transfer to a penitentiary up north where the winters were very long and cold, and where Bond would most likely not think to look for a long time.

“You did something,” Bond said, that same day.

“Nothing at all,” Q replied, and kissed Bond until he forgot about their conversation.

By the time Q returned to work, he had a new pair of glasses and barely any marks left on him. His wrist still felt sore and the skin under his cardigans felt itchy with healing skin, but it was good to be back. Still, people looked at him when he passed in the corridors and sometimes, he caught his minions glancing at him worriedly from the corner of his eye. As if Bond wasn’t bad enough he now had to deal with their coddling, and it wasn’t until he had a very serious conversation with his staff that their behaviour began to return to normal.

The only person that still seemed off was Bond but it wasn’t until Mallory got involved that Q realised the extent of it.

“Talk to him,” Mallory all but begged, one rainy Thursday morning.

“I’ll do my best,” Q said, not making any promises.

But when he arrived in his office, he found Bond lounging on his sofa like a king, and it seemed a better time than any to bring it up.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Q said.

“Doing what?” Bond asked.

“Turning down assignments.”

“Why not? The last two sounded boring.”

“You can’t just pick and choose.”

“Why not?”

“Because heaven help me if you’re turning into even more of a prima donna. There won’t be any room for me _and_ your ego.”

Bond sat up from his reclined position and looked at Q levelly.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Q rolled his eyes and went to his seat.

“Next assignment. You’re taking it. End of story.”

But when the next one came available, Bond did not take it and Q could have strangled him out of frustration. He understood that Bond was upset about what had happened, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go back to work out of concern that Q would be ambushed again.

They talked about it--raising their voices loud enough at one point that the neighbours probably heard--and finally came to an agreement that Bond would take the next mission that came his way so long as Q made use of the escort service at MI6 when he was away.

After a whirlwind few weeks, it is now just about waiting for one to come up.

But when Q wakes up, he thinks that it won’t be fair if it’s today. It’s their sort of anniversary--or as close to the original time frame of their getting together anyway--and Q is looking forward to a lavish dinner and an even more lavish evening when they return home.

But things don’t always go to plan.

“Are you okay?” Q asks, leaning against the closed bathroom door.

Bond retches in response.

“I told you the canteen pasta looked a bit dodgy,” Q says, and Bond groans and then begins gagging.

Q tries the doorknob, but finds that it’s locked. The toilet flushes.

“James?”

“Go away…” comes Bond’s pathetic voice from the other side. “Just leave me here to die.”

“Nothing can kill you, remember? You’re James Bond.”

Bond promptly starts vomiting again and Q winces in sympathy. He’s been in there since Q came home via MI6 babysitter/driver, and he’s a bit worried that Bond’s been sick for so long. Q checks his watch and sees that it’s been at least three hours now. They’ve already missed their reservation.

“Should I call Medical?” Q asks.

“I’ll kill you…” Bond says.

“Then open up,” Q says, “or I’ll break the lock and you’ll have to fix it.”

Bond doesn’t say anything. The toilet flushes again and after a minute, Q hears the lock click. Q takes that as his invitation and opens the door. He finds Bond sitting on the bathroom floor, his back propped up against the side of the tub. It smells strongly of sick and Q commends himself for not gagging. It might have something to do with the way Bond looks so pathetic and in need of care that Q is able to put his own discomfort at the back of his mind.

“You look terrible,” Q says, taking in Bond’s ashen appearance, the sweat on his brow, the slightly green tinge to his cheeks. His tie is in a ball on the floor and the top few buttons of his shirt are undone; the last time Q has seen Bond look this bad was after Skyfall, when he had been brought back to Medical suffering from shock and hypothermia.

“Thanks,” Bond says, swallowing.

Q can tell without touching him that he’s got a fever, so he opens the linen cabinet and pulls out some fresh flannels. He wets one under the tap and rings it out, then kneels down next to Bond and presses the cloth against his forehead. Bond shivers, but makes a grateful sound at the contact.

He seems fine for a few moments, and Q thinks that maybe the worst has passed, but then Bond sits up and starts sicking up again. Q can’t do anything for him except drape the cold compress across the back of his neck and rub his back. This goes on for a while, until Bond is dry heaving.

“Okay, okay, it’s over,” Q says, as he dabs at the perspiration on the back of Bond’s neck.

Bond doesn’t move from his place hunched over the toilet, resting his head on his arms without moving. Q moves his hand over Bond’s back in soothing circles.

“You’ve sealed the deal for me. Never again the canteen,” Q says, and Bond groans. “Oh, sorry. Too soon?”

It takes some time before Bond lifts his head. He looks like he’s just been hit by a car, but Q keeps that comment to himself.

“We really ought to clean in here more,” Bond says.

“I’ll get right on that.”

“There’s a ball of hair behind the toilet the size of Einstein.”

“Oh, good, now he’ll have a friend.”

Bond lets out a short breath, like a laugh.

“Do you want to get up?” Q asks.

“No,” Bond says, as he shifts away from the toilet and back to lean against the tub again.

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” Q tells him. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“I smell.”

Q laughs.

“You do, but don’t worry. I’ll let you off this one time,” Q says, and slides his arm under Bond’s.

It takes Q some time to get Bond off the floor, his dead weight more than Q can lift on his own. But soon he gets Bond standing on his own two feet and after the other man begs him, Q helps him brush his teeth to rid the taste of sick from his mouth. From there, it’s a long walk to the bedroom before Q finally gets Bond to bed and strips him out of his sweat damp clothes. When Bond starts shivering, Q pulls the blanket up over his shoulders.

He leaves Bond for only a moment, to go into the kitchen to get some ice and to wet a fresh flannel in the bathroom.

“I ruined our plans, didn’t I?” is the first thing Bond asks when Q returns and sits on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Don’t you dare worry about that right now,” Q says, and drapes the cloth over Bond’s forehead. “You’ve got to get better.”

Q feeds Bond ice chips until the glass is empty, and when Bond doesn’t start retching again, Q considers it a small victory.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Bond says sleepily.

“Rest,” Q tells him, and pets at his damp hair.

“You know, I love you.”

Q’s fingers falter for just a moment, before resuming their previous affection. He knows the confession is most likely the result of Bond’s fever, but it still surprises and pleases Q all the same. And he knows that Bond probably won’t remember this in the morning, but Q kisses the back of his hand and says:

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx


	14. Day 385

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the crazy lightning storm yesterday, I didn't get to post the last few chapters by the 7/7/14 deadline, but here they are. I hope you enjoy!

It’s two days after their anniversary-date-gone-wrong when Bond finally feels like he doesn’t have one foot in the grave. He can take anything life throws at him, from bullets to knives to poison, but a batch of spoiled alfredo had been the closest to his ultimate downfall. Bond doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach pasta for a long time; it will be even longer before he willingly eats in the MI6 canteen again.

Bond is just thinking this when Q appears in the doorway, holding a cup of tea.

“Good morning,” Q says. He is still dressed for bed, his hair stuck up at all angles, and there’s a sleepy look to him that Bond adores.

“Morning,” Bond rasps, and licks his dry lips.

“You’re looking better,” Q says, as he hands over the mug. It’s warm and smells like Echinacea, and when Bond takes a sip, it’s only slightly sweetened, which is pleasing to his palate and stomach. “You know, that just-vomited look wasn’t a good one for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bond replies, managing a smile.

Q sits down on the edge of the bed and rubs at Bond’s knee.

“I’m sorry for ruining our plans,” Bond says.

“I told you to not be sorry for that.”

“But I am.”

“Don’t be. How does it go? _In sickness and in health_?”

“We’re not married,” Bond points out, but not out of offence. In fact, the thought of marriage isn’t quite as terrifying as it had been, and Bond wonders if it’s because the last year of domesticity has softened him.

“No, but as close to it as we can be. I have to be very fond of someone to deal with their vomit,” Q says.

“Any word how many people got sick?” Bond asks.

“You don’t want to know,” Q says with a grimace, “but let’s just say that we are not going anywhere near the canteen ever again.”

“Are you going to start taking on a married role and making homemade lunches?” Bond teases.

“Of course, but you know all I can make is pasta, _dear_ ,” Q says, and Bond feels his stomach clench at the thought.

Q laughs.

“I’m just kidding. I can make soup too,” Q says.

“You? Make soup?”

“It comes in a can. All I have to do is heat it up.”

Bond leans back against the headboard with a grin, cradling his tea.

“A real gourmet,” Bond says.

“Cooking isn’t my area and I accept it,” Q says, and pats Bond’s leg, “but I can make toast and some eggs if you’re up for it.”

Bond’s stomach still isn’t ready for real food, but he had eaten toast the previous night and been fine, so bread seemed a safe choice.

“Just toast,” Bond says.

“And the tea. Drink all of the tea,” Q says, as he gets up to go into the kitchen.

Bond drinks his tea obediently as he listens to Q moving about in the next room. It reminds him of much of yesterday, when Q had stayed home to coddle him incessantly. Bond had to admit, though, there were perks to waking up feeling terrible, only to have someone there attempting to make it less-terrible. Q had even helped him take a bath and had changed the sheets so they didn’t smell like sick. And when Bond wanted to sleep, Q stayed in bed with him and read a book, just so that Bond could use him as a pillow. The only downside to the entire day was that Q constantly pressured him to drink fluids, which Bond knew was necessary, but he swears that if he ever tastes another orange flavoured sports drink, it will be too soon.

Thankfully, when Q returns, he has no sports drink with him, but a plate of lightly buttered toast.

“Eat what you can,” Q encourages him, as Bond helps himself to one of the pieces on top of the stack.

“Are you going to work?” Bond asks, round a mouthful of bread.

“I’m telecommuting today,” Q answers, as he gets comfortable on the bed, sitting crosslegged facing Bond. “If you’re feeling up to it, we can catch up on _Game of Thrones_ today. I’ve been actively torrenting.”

Which is how Bond ends up on the couch later that morning, sprawled out with his head on Q’s lap. He’s only half-watching, his eyes barely open. Q is petting at his hair idly, and the touch is enough to send him into a pleasant doze. 

“James,” Q says.

“Hmm?”

“Nevermind.”

“What’s wrong?” Bond asks, turning slightly to look up at Q.

“It’s nothing,” Q says, and resumes petting him.

He seems preoccupied in a way that has nothing to do with the complexity of the show. (Honestly, Bond’s given up on understanding the plot; he just watches it because Q likes it when he does.)

“Q,” Bond says.

“Hmm?”

“Really.”

“It’s silly.”

“What is?”

Q stares straight ahead at the telly, but his fingers keep carding through Bond’s hair. There are a long few moments of silence before Q speaks again.

“You said something...the other night. Do you remember?”

Bond tries to think back, but that night is a blur of discomfort and humiliation. He remembers feeling awful, that he might have at one point begun to involuntarily cry while retching, and that Q had been there trying to help. Otherwise, he couldn’t remember anything else, let alone a conversation.

“No… I don’t think so, why?” Bond asks. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Q says, smiling down at him. “You were a little delirious, I think.”

“Oh,” Bond replies, and frowns up at him. “Is it something I need to apologise for?”

Q laughs.

“No, nothing like that. Like I said, don’t worry about it.”

It’s only later, when Bond is in bed and on the cusp of sleep, that he remembers.

_I love you._

He sits up and turns on the light, runs his hands tiredly over his face. At this point, he knows he has two options: he either confronts things now or he goes back to bed and tries to ignore it until it consumes him. While the coward’s way out is more appealing, Bond has never been one to give up when something needs done, so he pulls on his dressing gown and gets up to go into the kitchen. He finds Q at the sink, wearing an apron to keep him dry as he tackles a pile of soapy dishes.

Q doesn’t seem to notice him, focussed in his dishes, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as if dancing to some tune that only he can hear.

“I meant what I said,” Bond says.

Q looks up from his work. He has a sud on his chin, which Bond wipes away with the corner of his sleeve.

“What was that?” he asks, voice raised slightly. It is then that Bond sees that Q had headphones in, so he had been dancing after all. Bond reaches forward and tugs one out, prepared to have Q sit down on the couch with him to have a serious conversation.

But what comes out of his mouth instead is:

“I love you.”

Q stares.

And stares.

The tap runs.

“What?” Q asks.

“I love you,” Bond says again.

Q still doesn’t say anything, looking at Bond like he’s in shock. The water is still running.

Bond leans over and turns off the tap, plunging them into silence.

“You love me,” Q says, not asks.

“Yes,” Bond replies.

Q tips his head to the side.

“Maybe you still have a fever?”

“I’m fine.”

In fact, Bond doesn’t think he’s ever been finer. He recognises the feeling in his chest from a long time ago, the one that has been steadily growing with each passing day. But it’s different from those weeks with her. When he had loved Vesper, the feeling had come so quickly that it was almost overwhelming, their passion leaving him breathless, as if his lungs were being crushed, like he was drowning...In contrast, his love for Q was something subtle but ever-present, a seed that began infinitesimally small and expanded slowly, filling in all the hollow crevices and deep fissures left behind from all the times he had been hurt before, until there is absolutely no room for anyone else but Q in his heart.

Bond made a decision a year ago to let Q into his life and now, over a year later, he has to make the decision to _keep_ him there.

“I mean it. I love you,” Bond says.

“You don’t have to say it just because you think you have to,” Q answers, with an expression that Bond cannot read but with a tone that tells Bond he can take it back now and all will be forgiven, forgotten.

“I’m not. I’m saying it because I want to.”

Q looks like he wants to cry, but he smiles instead.

“Well it bloody well took you long enough,” Q says, puts his arms round Bond’s shoulders, and kisses him.

 _Oh, yes,_ Bond thinks, as he kisses back, _I am definitely in love._


	15. Day 698

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the lightening storms and my subsequent headache from all the barometric pressure, here is the final chapter! Better late than never? -nervous laughing-

The sun is coming up just as Q opens his eyes. Although he’s not one to get up at such an early hour, he makes an exception this time. 

It is only so often that one wakes up in Venice.

He reaches for Bond, but finds the bed beside him empty, as has been the norm since they arrived two days ago. Q wraps himself in the blanket and breathes in Bond’s scent. He should have known better than to ask to come here, even if Bond didn’t give him a real choice. It had been two weeks ago. While Q had been at work, Bond decided to do some spring cleaning at the flat, only to discover the box at the back of the closet that Q had kept hidden for the duration of their relationship. 

“What’s this?” Bond asked, when Q arrived home. 

The book crate sat on the coffee table, and Q knew he had some explaining to do. 

“Just some old stuff from uni,” Q replied, a poor lie if he ever heard one. He could tell that Bond knew, and that was confirmed when Bond picked up a notebook out of the box. 

It had the MI6 logo on the front. 

“Try again,” Bond said. 

“Just some old stuff,” Q amended. 

Bond removed a stack of books from the box and set them on the table with a _thunk_.

“ _Traveller’s Guide to Venice. Venice Encounter. Essential Venice_ ,” Bond read. “I’m seeing a pattern here.” 

When Q didn’t say anything Bond asked:

“Why did you hide this?”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“It was shoved in the back of the closet behind a false wall.”

“Maybe slightly hiding it.” 

Bond looked at him with a gaze so steady and piercing that Q flinched and looked away. He and Bond had had their spats and arguments, but this one felt more dangerous than any of them. If there were two pressure points Q knew, they were the two women Bond loved and lost. 

“Why?” Bond asked. 

“Why do you think?”

Bond leant back against the sofa and looked at him expectantly. Q swallowed, regretting even having kept the books in the first place, that he had not sold the Berlitz _Learn Italian_ discs and burned his language learning notes long ago. 

“I didn’t want to…” Q struggled to find the words, “rub salt in that wound.” 

“You think I can’t handle this?” Bond asked levelly. 

“That’s not what I meant by it.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Christ, James, I was just being considerate.”

“Considerate.”

“Yes. To avoid this conversation we’re having right now.”

“You could have just told me,” Bond said. 

“Yes, because that would have gone over so well.”

Bond stood up and it took all Q had to not reflexively move away. He knew that Bond would never hurt him, but he also knew who had the upper hand in this conversation. Q had lied and Bond had caught him, and even if he had done it for the right reasons, Q had still not been entirely honest.

“How long have you wanted to go?” Bond asked. 

Q looked stubbornly at the carpet. It had been his dream to go to Italy as long as he could remember. He almost had the chance for a class during uni, but had come down with pneumonia before the trip and had to stay behind. But where Venice was a place of longing for Q, it was a place of nightmares for Bond, and Q would rather never step foot there if it meant sparing Bond from another moment of pain. 

“A little while,” Q eventually admitted, because it wasn’t entirely a lie. “I just wanted to visit a few museums...see the Gallerie dell’Accademia in person. A real Tintoretto or Carpaccio...it its home country.” 

Those words were at least entirely honest. Q had never been able to hide his love for art during the course of their relationship and hadn’t wanted to, even inviting Bond along to several events at a few choice museums in Greater London, where Q had been a financial patron for many years.

“Then let’s go,” Bond said, with no room for argument. 

And after an awkward two day train ride, that is how they ended up here, at a lavish hotel with a penthouse view of the Piazza San Marco. It’s absolutely breathtaking. The only thing that could make it perfect would be if Q could wake up one morning here with Bond next to him. Because even with the beautiful accommodations and the delicious food, Bond’s been standoffish.

They haven’t had sex since their argument a few weeks ago and even though they sleep in the same bed every night, Q can feel the distance between them. Two days in Italy and Bond hasn’t left the hotel room, leaving Q to adventure around the city on his own. Today doesn’t seem to be starting any differently. If Bond doesn’t want to go anywhere, Q will not force him, but he isn’t going to sit around, either. 

Q gets up and pulls on a shirt so that he is somewhat decent, then goes in search of Bond. He finds the man on the balcony, watching the sunrise. There is a sketchbook on his lap, but the page is blank. That’s when Q notices that he is not watching the sun, but instead looking at the water. Q isn’t a mind reader, but it’s not a far guess to know that Bond is thinking about Vesper, like he has been since before they even arrived. 

They’ve never really talked about her, even after two years together, but Q knows what happened to her, which is why he had hidden all the books in the first place. So Q knows about Vesper, about how she betrayed him. 

About how Bond still loves her. 

Q swallows back the lump in his throat and gives Bond his privacy. Vesper is a part of Bond’s life that he cannot expect his lover to forget, so he doesn’t. 

Instead, he showers alone and dresses for the day, then orders room service. When it is delivered, Q brings a cup of coffee out to Bond. His lover doesn’t acknowledge him, so Q sets it on the table beside him and leaves without a word. 

It’s lonely, Q thinks, as he takes to the streets by himself. It would have been nice to have Bond with him today. He takes pictures of everything to make up for the absence at his side and spends hours in a gallery staring at paintings he’s only ever seen in books. It’s late afternoon when a handsome, dark-haired man tries to make small talk with him in front of a Titian portrait. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” Q says clumsily and with a poor accent.

“Your Italian is very good,” he says in English, and smiles at Q appreciatively, in a way that Q doesn’t have to know the language to be able to understand.

“I’m married,” Q replies. He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, but he does. Fortunately, his hands are in his pockets, so the man does not see him smooth his thumb over his bare ring finger.

The man looks round.

“But you’ve been alone this entire time.”

“Yes,” Q says, and thinks _but so has he_. 

Q politely excuses himself and leaves the museum, stopping at a pastry shop on his way back to the hotel. He is just crossing the bridge that connects the two plazas when he sees Bond, leaning against the rail, staring into the Canal Grande. He stops. There is a bouquet of roses in his hand. 

At first, Q thinks they might be for him, but then Bond throws them into the water and Q knows they’re for her. 

Q feels as if he is interrupting something private, and so he abruptly turns to walk away. 

“Q,” Bond calls to him. 

When Q looks over his shoulder, he sees Bond watching him. It’s the first time in days that Bond has made eye contact. 

“Hi,” Q says, when they are standing beside one another. Q looks down into the water. The roses have already sunk to the bottom, out of sight. He crumples the bag a bit in his hand, then holds it up. “I picked up frittelle.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bond says.

The way he says it makes Q’s throat close up a bit.

“Why? They’re delicious,” Q says, trying for humour. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” 

Q leans against him.

“I’m sorry, too. We shouldn’t have come.” 

Bond’s arm comes round him for the first time in weeks, and Q could cry with how happy it makes him. 

“It’s my fault. You shouldn’t feel sorry,” Bond says. 

They stand there for some time, watching the boats pass under them. 

“I said goodbye to her,” Bond says.

Q watches him, not trusting himself to speak. 

“It took me some time...being back here,” Bond continues, “but it needed to be done. It’s finally done.” 

“You know,” Q says quietly, “you don’t have to.”

“I do,” Bond answers, “because I don’t want to love you any less.”

“But you don’t love me any less. You haven’t all this time.”

Q looks up at the sky, because it’s vastness is more welcome than the murky depths below. He doesn’t feel jealousy toward Vesper like Bond might expect, like most lovers do of their partners’ old flames. Instead, he feels a sadness for her, that she never knew the depths of Bond’s love, and he can never hate her for that. 

He can never wish her forgotten from Bond’s heart for that. 

“You just love me differently, that’s all. And that’s okay,” Q finishes.

Bond is quiet for a long time, until he asks:

“Do you still love someone else?”

“Yes, but not how you think,” Q answers. There was the boy who made love to him for the first time in secondary school, the partner in college who got him through the rough patches, the man who wrote him songs and sang them on stage for everyone to hear, the handful of others that had come in and out of his life over the years. Even if most of those relationships did not end well, Q could still look back on those moments in time and remember how much they meant to him, how much he loved them. “They were the loves I needed at the time and I love them for that. They made me who I am.” 

Q turns in Bond’s arms and looks up at him.

“So don’t think you have to say goodbye to her for my sake.” 

Bond doesn’t say anything, just hugs Q so tightly that it hurts. 

“Oh god, you’re crushing the frittelle.” 

Bond laughs and relinquishes his hold just enough to kiss Q. 

“No, you laugh now, but after you taste one you’ll realise what a crime this is,” Q says when they part. 

“Thank you,” Bond says, and he smiles like he hasn’t in far too long. 

Q feels as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. 

“Dinner?” Q asks, and Bond takes his arm.

“Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much UnBETA'd, so please let me know if you see any glaring errors~ xx
> 
> **EDIT 7/8/14, 22:32**  
>  Because I'm still not happy with the epilogue, this will have to suffice as the last chapter. Thank you everyone for all your support in this project. I hope you enjoyed it~ <3

**Author's Note:**

> UnBETA'd. Please let me know if you find any glaring errors~ xx


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